Tango
by Rab-idRaeann
Summary: New Chapter is UP! Written between my Buffy resurrection story and Cuore Della Notte...but...never finished...I will try to finish it here...Buffy decides to start dating again and Spike is appalled...an emotion soon shared by all of the Scoobies.
1. Default Chapter

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

Part ONE

"Hang on a minute," Spike scolded.  He made a wild grab for Buffy's elbow, catching her just before she entered the abandoned building in pursuit of three huge vampires. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, spinning her back to face him.

"Fighting Evil," Buffy replied, in a  "buy a clue Spike" tone of voice, as she wrenched free of his painful grip. "You remember?  My night job?"

"Yeah, well, I also remember that the Rotweiller Triplets kicked your ass less than five minutes ago," Spike snapped back, pointedly. "You know, in case you forgot."

"They got in a couple lucky shots."

"Well, looks like their lucky night, dunnit? With you about to go Muldering into that deathtrap and me without my tiny pocket torch and cellphone.  What's the plan then? We use our sunny personalities to toast them?

"Oh, Spike, You think that will work?" Buffy asked, breathlessly, giving a perfect imitation of the Bot's wide-eyed adoration.

"That's clever, that is," Spike nodded, not at all amused. "With a razor wit like that you won't have any trouble entertaining the troops.  I can see my talents aren't needed here so I'll just toddle on home and leave you to it."

Buffy didn't reply as he turned and stalked off into the night but she did cast a skeptical glance at the dilapidated building.  Xander and Tara were blocks away and illogical as it was, without Spike the night seemed suddenly colder.  Buffy shivered slightly.  She looked after her erstwhile companion who was a good 20 yards up the street, his pantheric stride covering ground, quickly.   

"Okay, maybe you're right," the Slayer muttered, under her breath, certain he wouldn't hear.

"No MAYBE about it," Spike shouted, still walking away. "Go on n'kill yourself all over again.  I can't stop you.  Matter of fact, I'm going to be the perfect 21st Century companion and support your decision completely."

He was furious.  Far angrier than this evening's botched encounter or Buffy's flippancy warranted. He'd been angry for almost three weeks. Ever since Buffy announced her plan to start dating again.  Dating!  When she'd made the pronouncement, he'd choked on one of Willow's mystery chip cookies and Dawn had thoughtlessly tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him.

He stopped under a streetlamp to pat himself down for a pack of smokes.  Leaning into the lamppost, he lit up and let most of his attention turn back toward the spot where he'd left the Slayer.  Spike was 95% certain she hadn't entered the building.  But he needed to be 100% sure.  He waited, listening, cigarette dangling from his lips.  There was a stir in the shadows behind him as he clicked his lighter closed.  Spike tensed, turned and caught the scent of her, even through the tang of burning tobacco.

"Will you, please, stop quoting from the relationship books, already?" Buffy sighed, stepping into the aurora of light.

"Don't like my insight into your feminine wiles?"

"Don't think you come from anywhere close to Mars," Buffy supplied, looking nervously around for her fellow Scoobies.  So far, she had managed to cover up her, for lack of a better word, "relationship" with the vampire.  But Buffy was seriously worried.  If she didn't find another outlet for her hormones soon, she was afraid the whole world would find out just how sick and twisted she really was.

"I have a cave," he smiled, exhaling a blue cloud around them, before amending, "well, a crypt…same difference."

"You know, I seriously doubt that it is," Buffy returned, glancing over her shoulder. "And you know what else I doubt?"

"That I have a good grip on the "Sunlight of Security?" Spike asked, too innocently. "That I truly understand a woman's need for admiration and respect?  That I can let go of my carnal desires long enough to patiently bring you to your sexual peak?

"No…well, okay…that last one," Buffy grimaced, blushing prettily.  She tried in vain to shake off the mental images as she continued, "because there is NO way you and Gary Smalley are on the same page with your definitions of the word 'carnal'."

"Ain't Gary I'm trying to communicate with here, pet," Spike leered, briefly.  

When Buffy gave him the deadpan stare he remembered his righteous anger.  With a flick of his wrist the vampire tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter.  He pulled his duster tight and pushed off from the lamppost.

"Love to stay and chat but I have pressing business with…" 

Spike verbally stumbled to the pause. He frowned up the street as if he might read the nature of his 'pressing business' in the distance.

"…with someone else," he finished, lamely. 

As he turned to leave the Slayer stepped in close and placed a restraining hand on his arm.  It was a feather light touch but it halted him in his tracks.

"Spike?" she breathed out, softly.

"Wh-what?" he said, trying very hard not to look at her.  He concentrated his attention on a crack in the concrete underfoot.

"This isn't just about tonight?  Me being careless or reckless or whatever?  This is something between you and mhhh…" 

Spike shifted, lifting his gaze from the sidewalk and meeting her eye.  An electric circuit seemed to click closed between them.  Buffy felt the current rush through her body from their point of contact.  Suddenly, she didn't want to know what was going on with Spike.  She just wanted to get as far away from him as possible before she gave into her desire to get as close to him as possible.  The Slayer dropped his arm like it had scalded her but Spike closed in anyway until she was backed up against the streetlight's concrete pole.

"Me and…you, Luv?" he gloated. "You saying there's a 'me and you'?"

"That's NOT what I am saying," Buffy snapped, sliding away. "There is a YOU and there is a ME."

"And there is something between us?" 

Spike was feeling better than he had in weeks.  He stalked Buffy with playful intensity well aware of the effect he was having on her.  It was the same vein tingling rush she caused in him.  Moving around the lamppost to keep the Slayer's back against it, he felt himself growing hard in response to their game.  The hot scent coming off of his beloved was more intoxicating than fresh spilled blood.

Buffy stuttered, "N-no! I me-m-mean...yes!  Something…between.  Not SOMETHING BETWEEN!"

"We should try a mirroring exercise," Spike said, with bright innocence. "Because I hear what you're saying but I'm not sure that I completely grasp your meaning."

"What?" Buffy's mouth dropped open as she puckered her brow up at him.

"Mirroring," Spike clarified. "Copying each other's movements and repeating each other's words in a search for better understanding.  Now let's see…you took my arm like this…"

He reached out and laid his hand against the bare skin of Buffy's forearm.  The Slayer's entire body jerked from the powerful surge of her hormonal response.  In her mind's eye, they were twined together, flesh on flesh.  She could hear the panting moan of her own desire longing for voice.  It forced her to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep the sound from escaping.  Her gaze locked onto Spike's and her interior switchboard lit up.

"This isn't just about tonight," Spike whispered, repeating Buffy's exact words as he trailed his fingertips along her arm.  Her innocent statement suddenly seemed to be layered with ulterior meaning, "You…being careless or reckless…or…"

"Whatever?" Buffy added, breathlessly, just before the vampire's fingers brushed over the tip of her cotton-covered breast.

"This is something between us," Spike finished and leaned in to kiss her.  

"You and me," Buffy corrected, before parting her lips to receive him. 

Spike lost all sense of self-preservation in the thrill of the moment.  He ground the Slayer into the concrete lamppost.  Grabbing fistfuls of her glorious hair, he held her in place as he savaged her mouth with his tongue.  Buffy moaned and arched back like the poster girl for full body surrender.  She wrapped herself around Spike like he was her personal salvation.  And he was.  His blood had given her new life and it sang now in her veins.  She could feel the gravitational pull of it, drawing them together.  

But was that reason enough to give in to this wicked hunger?

Was a blood bonding enough of a foundation to build on?  Was it even possible to build something approaching normal with a vampire?  A dead, demon-animated thing?  Buffy felt the returning prick of her subconscious and she pushed at Spike, twisting out of his arms.  

"Baby…what?" Spike blinked, like a man awaking from a drugged sleep, his tone one of throaty confusion.  He looked around, half expecting to see some enemy.

"I don't want this," Buffy asserted, hating the tremor in her voice.

"You do," he said, firmly, reaching for her again. "You know you do."

Panicking, she slapped him, hard, growling, "Leave me alone."

Spike balled up his fist, eyes blazing.  He stepped in, challenging her, "You're aching for it aren't you?  Some physical contact.  Fighting or fucking, makes no nevermind.  Go on then get it out of your system.  I'm not good enough for the likes of you to bed…but nobody else is stepping up to the plate now are they?  Guess a small dose of your precious self is more than most men can handle."

Buffy gaped at him, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes.  Afraid of the hurt, she let anger carry her past painful truths and spat out, "You're not a man.  Men can handle me just fine.  You wait and see how well they handle me."  She spun on her heel and stalked off, shouldering between Xander and Tara as they rounded the corner of Elm Street, barely slowing her pace to accommodate them.  The two Scoobies shot a look back at Spike before trotting after the Slayer.

Sighing, Spike fished in his duster pocket, pulling out a battered spiral bound notebook and a pen.  Flipping to a blank page, he wrote, "August 18th - Argued with Buffy, again.  Negative: Dating still a go.  Positive: Snogged.  Progress.  Points for Mirroring. Next up Quality Time."

                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He is out to drive me insane," Buffy Summers said, by way of greeting, as Willow Rosenberg bounced down the steps of the Education Building. "One more snide comment, just one more and I'm going to slip him the wooden sayonara."

"What did Spike do now?" the red-haired witch sighed, as she watched the Slayer pace back and forth in a tightly wound manner.  There was only one being on the planet that could unsettle Buffy to this extent.

"It's the whole relationship thing again," the Slayer snarled, in exasperation. "Last night during patrol and again today.  Like it's fate or destiny and we belong together, now.  Look at this," she urged, holding out at card.  Willow took it and read the neatly printed words.

"It's," the witch began, trying not to smile, "it's a poem." 

The Slayer struck a dramatic pose one hand pressed to her breast and the other raised toward the Heavens as she quoted in a bombastic British accent,  "Both born of the darkness, now joined in the blood!"

"Is this…?" Willow hesitated, scanning the elegantly written verse again before rushing out the question.  "Is it because of your resurrection?"

Buffy nodded, blushing uncontrollably as she mumbled, "He says 'we are one…like the siring.'"

Willow turned the magical ramifications over in her mind, considering her spell from this new angle.  "That's an intriguing concept actually.  I wonder if…"

"And when you say 'intriguing'," Buffy interrupted, "I am sure what you really mean is 'icky'?"

"Oh, well, yes," Willow changed gears, quickly.  "It's very icky and also…uhm…bad…Spike is so very bad…to say something like," she snorted, derisively, air quoting, "'We are one'…you and Spike…one…laughable…HA!"

Buffy looked even more morose, "Why did you have to use HIS blood, Will?"

"The spell called for heart's blood," Willow explained. "I couldn't spill the blood of an innocent?"

"I guess," Buffy mumbled, as she plopped onto a bus-stop bench halfway along Oak Street. "But why did it have to be SPIKE? You couldn't have called Angel?"

"Spike was here," Willow replied, taking a seat next to her friend.  "He volunteered.  Besides would you really be any happier if I'd bound you to Angel?"

"Please don't use that word," Buffy grimaced, springing to her feet again and launching into a rant. "Bound! I am bound to Spike! Hand to hand, heart to heart…leg shackle to ball and chain. It's like some kind of death sentence." She exchanged a glance with her resurrectionist and then laughed, loosing her steam, "Okay…literally."

"He missed you, Buffy," Willow said, after a long pause. "Did you know? He went a little crazy after…" the witch sighed, remembering the pain they all had endured. "When you died he wept like a…a lost child."

Buffy sank back down onto the bench, sighing.

"Dawn told me," she admitted.  They watched a Silver Porsche pull up to the opposite curb and stop before she continued, "She said he stayed by my grave.  Night after night.  Weeping.  Until you agreed to bring me back.  But…that doesn't change the way things are, Willow.  I need to find someone real…someone normal…. someone living.  And Spike just needs to let go and move on."

The two friends sat side by side each lost in thought.   They watched a couple exit the flashy car at the far curb and climb the steps of a brownstone apartment building.  The man graciously took the woman's arm, pulling her close.  She was young and trim but exceedingly plain with virtually no figure.  She had a pointy forgettable face and wispy nut-brown hair. 

Her companion was a marked contrast, a glittering privateer of a man, all brooding brow, flowing locks and rippling muscles.  He looked like something just off the cover of a trashy paperback novel.  Willow and Buffy exchanged a telling glance as they contemplated the mismatched pair.

"Boy!" Buffy whispered, leaning close to her bud. "Talk about the odd couple."

"Do you think he's like…a…you know?" Willow tipped her hand, suggestively.

"Gigolo?" Buffy asked, giving the word a 'duh' spin.

"Well…" Willow cocked her head and grinned, "…a paid escort, anyway?"

"Definitely," Buffy giggled, as the couple vanished into the building. "Did you see that shirt? Open to the waist. And the gold earring?"

"Not to mention that bodice ripper body," Willow observed, wryly.  "Something tells me she isn't interested in the intellectual relationship."

"Will?" Buffy gasped, in mocked shock. "I didn't know you noticed that kind of thing anymore.  Are you thinking of switching back to the home team?"

"I'm gay not blind," Willow said with a sidelong glance and a small smile. "I was just pointing out the obvious attractions of the man.  Speaking from a purely aesthetic standpoint.  Like with art or music.  But he is kind of your type."

"Nope," Buffy said, standing up and shaking her head in a firm negative. "His type is no longer my type.  I've had enough of those hulking, omni-present men of many muscles and few words.  Next time out, I'm after a talker.  I want someone svelte and sensitive.  An intellectual type that writes the poetry."

"Usually don't find that sort of thing lurking around Sunnydale," Willow laughed, following the Slayer across the street.

"Oh, he's out there," Buffy assured, as she paused to give "Cover Boy's" silver Porsche a closer look. "I can sense him."

Caught up in studying the car, neither woman noticed the view through one of the brownstone's windows.  Inside one of the front apartments, the longhaired hunk and his mousy companion were engaged in passionate lovemaking.  They were locked together, half-naked, in what looked like the kitchenette.  Suddenly, gray tentacles erupted from the entire length of the man's body. 

The barbed ends of each swaying member pierced the woman's flesh and she arched back, struggling like a fish caught in an anemone's deadly embrace.  She seemed to be screaming but no sound filtered out to the street.   Sparks of plasmic energy danced between the pair for several long seconds and then the tentacles pulled free.  The woman's emaciated body crumbled to the floor, nothing more than a pile of dusty skin and bones.  

Buffy straightened slightly and looked around as if she'd heard something odd.  She felt a tingling sensation crawl along her exposed flesh.  In the apartment the Faux-Male also appeared to be listening.  Noticing the open curtain, the hunky creature belatedly pulled the sash closed just before the Slayer ran her appraising glance over the front of the building.  Seeing nothing unusual, but still supremely wigged, Buffy took Willow firmly by the elbow and hustled her up the street.  

The brownstone apartment's curtains twitched open slightly.   Through the thin slit in the drapes, the Fabio look-a-like stared fixedly after the Slayer.  His features and figure began to melt, blending and twisting together.  In a very short time, the tentacled demon had assumed a svelte, poetic and very familiar form.   

Letting the curtain fall back, the Incubus turned a critical eye on the apartment.  A shower of sparks and a rippling wave of energy spread out from his body and the décor of the room changed.  Red gingham curtains became sunny yellow, the kitschy kitchen took on a sleek, streamlined look and the entertainment center became a bookcase full of intellectual texts.  The remains of his latest meal morphed into a fine antique vase.  The creature picked up his new vase, placing it in an artistic arrangement with some other gewgaws on a small table.  In the street below, the Silver Porsche melted away and for a brief moment was replaced with a rusted out Jetta before stretching like a contented cat and settling into the outline of a Buffy-pleasing Black Jaguar.


	2. Chapter Two

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

Part TWO

The corner mart was open 24 hours.  In a row. Which was a good thing because Buffy only remembered to shop around 2:30 am, after she had dusted the last vamp and put Mr. Pointy to bed.  She was totally not used to being the breadwinner…or buyer…or whatever…for the family.  As she prowled the empty aisles with her basket, she thought about how her Mom had made it all look so easy.  Joyce Summers, her daughter was coming to understand, had been something of a wonder with the working and the child rearing and the dinner creating.

"Pasta!" Buffy said, perkily, as she picking up a box of noodles. "Pasta makes for a nutritious dinner."

She turned the package over and frowned at the instructions on the back.

"It seems simple enough," she remarked, to nobody in particular.

But cooking was a deceptive art.  And the Slayer had learned through bitter experience that unlike Aikido, Swordsmanship, Remote Viewing or even French Braids, it was one she was not going to master. 

"Nothing ventured, nothing stuck to the pot," she quipped and with a fatalistic little shrug popped some ziti and a jar of ready-made sauce into the basket on her arm.

 "Salad, breadsticks and a nice peach sorbet and I'm done," Buffy said, pausing to ponder, still thinking out loud, "Unless we need cereal…or milk...or juice," she sighed, "and once again, with the reminder to self about making a list."

Trying to visualize the cupboards at home, Buffy stared, absentmindedly, up the aisle toward frozen foods.  It took a moment to register something very odd in her line of sight.  There was a black clad, blue-eyed, vampire with a lit cigarette smoldering in his right hand a few feet away from her.  He was leaning nonchalantly against the aisle shelves, watching Buffy with a sort of creepy intensity.  Which, when she came to think about it, was fairly normal.  It was the shopping cart beside him that was odd.

"Spike?" the Slayer exclaimed, not believing her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

In answer, the blonde vampire held up his left hand displaying a six-pack of dark ale, definitely not domestic.  

"You're buying beer at the Quick-Mart?" Buffy asked, in surprise. "Since when?"

"Since the beer fairy stopped delivering," Spike responded.  Pushing away from the shelving, he set his beer burden in the bottom of his cart, took a long drag off his cigarette and started toward her leaving his buggy behind. "I called him a poof one night last week and he just sodded off."

"I meant more like…since when are you actually buying things," Buffy clarified, definitely not amused by his wit. "Paying with the money as opposed to say…I don't know…STEALING?"

"This is the only bleeding place open at this hour," Spike explained, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. "How many times you think I can rob it before someone catches on?  Then we make with the recriminations and the blood-shed and the searing head pain."

"How many times have you robbed it already?" Buffy asked, pointedly.

"Three or four," Spike shrugged, not really remembering. "Why?" he added slyly, deliberately misunderstanding her. "You want us to knock the place over, now?  A sort of, Bonnie and Clyde, grab and dash thing?"  He leaned in close to examine the contents of her basket before continuing, "'Cause if that's what you're planning we need to get the breadsticks first…a nice Chianti…maybe a little cheese."

Buffy closed her eyes and counted to ten but when she looked again Spike was still there.  She decided to pretend he wasn't.  She stepped around him and started for the dairy case, certain now it was milk she needed.  Spike fell into step beside her not taking the hint.

"Idin this nice?" he sighed. "Very domestic. They say it's the secret of a healthy relationship…doing the little things together.  Call it Quality Ti…"

"Bugger off!" Buffy snarled, whipping around on him.  

Spike fell back a step from the unexpected assault and then what the Slayer had just said hit him. It hit Buffy at the same time. She turned a lovely shade of red. 

"I-I m-mean…Go Away," she stammered, blushing right down to her toes.

"Oh, I understood you the first time, Pet," the vampire assured, grinning wolfishly. "English is my native tongue, you know."

"And I could so easily make it Sign Language," the Slayer growled, using one hand to mime the ripping out of Spike's native tongue.  Fed up with him, she moved in, menacingly.

"Alright, alright, don't get all lathered up," Spike said in a tone guaranteed to make Buffy wince. "You need a little personal space, that's always an option." 

"Matter of fact," he added, with a snap of his fingers,  "I believe it's another secret of the healthy relationship.  I was watching the Mars and Venus thing again yesterday, Lifetimes' got the reruns," Buffy bristled and he quickly amended, "Only 'cause I couldn't sleep, and…anyway…that Moonlighting bint was going on about how…"

Buffy turned on her heel and walked away from him.  Spike watched her move off, tilting his head slightly, thoroughly enjoying the view.  He had a self-satisfied little grin on his face.  He waited until Buffy reached the end of the aisle before calling after her in an echoing voice. 

"Mind you remember Dawn likes the real Romano cheese…none of that powdered Parmesan crap."

Turning the corner, Buffy stared down one of the bag boys as he gaped at her.  She was about to get on with her shopping when she suddenly realized she should make sure Spike made like Elvis and left the building.  She hurried to the produce section, ducked down behind a mountain of watermelons and targeted his basket in the security mirror over the cash registers. 

Buffy watched, in fascination, as items disappeared from the shelves and reappeared in Spike's shopping cart.  After a very brief time, the cart headed for checkout.  She watched the weird exchange of money between vampire and clerk.  Once the cash was totally out of Spike's hands it became reflective again.  His groceries, also, reflected nicely on the conveyer belt but as soon as he picked up his paper sack it was gone. 

A minute later, the store's electronic doors seemed to whisper open and closed of their own accord.  Peering around her cover of watermelons, Buffy watched Spike fade into the darkness of the parking lot.  His coat, faintly visible to the last, glittering and swishing as it picked up the overhead lights, finally flickered from view.  With a small sigh, Buffy straightened up and took a step back. Something brushed lightly against the bare skin of her shoulder.  Something very like a warm hand.  Nerves already at the twanging point, the Slayer yelped and spun around. 

The most attractive man Buffy had ever seen was standing just inches away from her. He was a brunette.  His tightly curled hair was cut short and he had a high, intellectual forehead.  His mouth was finely chiseled, his nose was straight and his cheekbones were pronounced.  His eyes, however, were easily his most striking feature.  They were blue under dark upswept brows, but as Buffy looked into them they seemed to shift shade from Caribbean to sea foam to cobalt and finally back to Caribbean again.

Unfortunately, Buffy didn't have as much time as she needed to study the man's chameleon like eyes before fate stepped between them.  Fate took the form of the Slayer's forgotten grocery basket.  It crashed into the lowest watermelon in the precariously stacked fruit peak, destabilizing it.  As the melons rumbled into motion, the masculine vision stepped out of the line of fire.   Buffy, still at ground zero, did an impressive series of pirouettes and flips to avoid the cascading fruit.  She almost succeeded in adverting disaster and then she slipped in a puddle of juice and went down.  Within seconds, Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer Extraordinaire, was buried alive under an avalanche of succulence.

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Willow," Buffy shouted in breathless excitement, as she practically skipped into the Magic Box the next morning. "You'll never guess what happened."

"Are you saying that because you think I'm a very bad guesser?" Willow asked, placing her book face down on the research table. "Because the turtle incident in 9th grade was not a good example.  You can't go around expecting…"

"It's because no one would ever guess, Wills," Buffy interrupted, with a huge grin.  But she sobered slightly as she added, "And you should just let go of the turtle incident. Okay?"

"It haunts me," Willow admitted. "I still have the flashbacks. I can see that little face peeking out of its shell…mocking me…"

"I met the most wonderful man," the Slayer announced, effectively cutting off the Wiccan woman's painful reminiscence.  Buffy gestured broadly as she corrected herself, "Okay, first I knocked over a load of watermelons and then I made a complete ass out of myself trying to avoid the onslaught of juiciness but then…I met the most wonderful man."

"You mean like a MAN man?" Willow asked, sitting forward on her seat in eager interest. "Like a dating type man? Like 'I am here to pick up Buffy for a fabulous evening out' kind of man?"

"Yes, that is exactly the kind of man that I mean," Buffy acknowledged and then she continued in a giddy overly feminine voice.  "A svelte, brilliant and, I am willing to bet, terribly poetic man, who asked me out for coffee.  His name is Roscoe Valenti."

"Cool," Willow breathed out, her eyes sparkling with vicarious excitement. "And did you? The coffee I mean? Or rather…will you?  You said 'yes' right?"

"I did," Buffy sighed, plopping into a chair and staring dreamily into space as she related the story, "We drove to L.A. and watched the sunrise from our spot on the beach, sitting on the hood of his black Jaguar." She paused, for the dramatic effect of the car before going on, "We ate fine pastries and drank Jamaican Blue Mountain blend and talked about deep meaningful things for hours and hours."

"Los Angeles?" Willow peeped, frowning in concern. "Buffy? With a total stranger? Just like that?  In the middle of the night?"

"I know," Buffy grinned, totally thrilled with her own daring. "Isn't it wild?  I don't know what came over me.  There was just something about him I instantly trusted."

"Well…" Willow considered this unhealthy behavior, still holding back the support, "…some demons or even powerful warlocks can cast a glamour over you. Make you feel all safe and secure.  It probably is okay because…well…look…you are home and nothing happened.  But you should be more careful, Buffy.  This IS the Hellmouth."

"Yeah," Buffy smirked, rolling her eyes, "and I AM the Slayer.  I checked him out for the fangs and the Hell-Smell, Will.  He was totally clean."

"But he could have been a plain old human serial killer," Willow insisted, pantomiming a Psycho-style knifing. "With the slicing and the dicing and the leaving of your body in a ditch."

"Again, SLAYER!" Buffy reminded, tapping her chest.  She was growing impatient with her friend's lack of enthusiasm. "Also, I am fine, healthy, unharmed, elated, overjoyed, spinning around with the blissful happy."

"And, of course," Willow said, with the small, prim smile of false cheer, "I'm happy, too.  Happy for your happy! So, tell me more…tell me everything.  What does he do for a living?"

"Nothing," Buffy replied, watching Willow's frown return. "He's retired."

"Uhm, Buffy?" the Wiccan woman began, her frown morphing into a scowl. "Just how old is this Roscoe guy?"

"Oh, I don't know about 75 or 80, I guess," Buffy shrugged.  She let Willow steam for a beat and then burst out laughing at her friend's dismayed expression.

"Buffy, don't do that," Willow yelped, slapping at the blond woman to make her stop teasing.

"He's 26, Will," Buffy reassured, gently.  "But he invented some kind of Silicon Valley gizmo and then sold the company for about a half a gazillion dollars.  So now he lives the life of leisure, traveling and such.  Did I mention the Jag?"

"Y-y-yes, you did mention," Willow said hesitantly not sure what to think about all of this un-Buffy-like giddiness. "And I am still glad that you're happy and…well…safe…and everything…and that your date went well.  But next time maybe you shouldn't just go off to Los Angeles with a strange man in the middle of the night.  You know, just cause some people might worry."

"There won't be a next time, Willow," Buffy said, gleefully.  She stood up and took a quick spin with her arms spread wide, exclaiming, "Because this is it!  He's the one!  I knew it the moment I saw him.  Did I mention he is such a hottie?  What amazing cheekbones and those eyes. And there was like this instant connection between us.  Boom!  I think we're soulmates or something."

"'Soulmates--?'" Willow squeaked, in shock. "B-but Buffy you just met him last night.  It was only one date.  Not even a date…coffee and danish.  Isn't it a little soon to be…"

"Willow, I love how you worry and fret," Buffy interrupted, planting a kiss on her startled friend's brow. "But there really is absolutely no need for you to be concerned.  You'll see…Roscoe Valenti is the perfect man."

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He's the 'perfect man,'" Willow air quoted, filling in Xander the next afternoon at the Magic Box, "That's what she said. That was her exact adjective…'perfect!'"

"Willow is a little concerned about Buffy's new boyfriend," Tara explained, to the Construction Foreman.

"Hence the group gathering?" Xander guessed.

"We haven't gone out together in a long time," Willow reminded, earnestly. "And…and so…so what if it gives us a chance to check him out?"

"Honey," Tara cautioned, nodding her head toward the training room where the Slayer was dressing, "this is Buffy's decision."

"Hey, who can say? Maybe he is perfect," Xander remarked, placing his lunch box and hardhat on the research table.  He gestured expansively in response to Willow's harsh snort, "I mean for Buffy.  Maybe she sensed something in him.  You know, like love at first sight."

"Only guys believe in love at first site," Willow said, rolling her eyes. "That's a total myth…just like the 'Perfect Man'."

"And you are not saying this because you are currently pro-Fem, right?" Xander asked.

"Xander is perfect," Anya chirped, popping up from behind the sales counter, with a small jar of weevils in her hand.

"See? It's all in the eye of the beholder," Xander reposted, before sweeping Anya into his arms for a hello kiss. The ex-demon managed to return the embrace and still keep tight hold of her merchandise.

"Well, maybe…" Willow hedged. "But don't you think this…sudden Buffy obsession is…well…a little bit…strange?"

"Strange how?" Xander inquired, coming out of the smooch but still cuddling Anya close.  He used his free hand to divide the room into two halves as he asked, "Strange, as in Buffy REALLY likes some guy she just met? Or strange as in we should be expecting him to eat out our eyeballs?"

"To-may-toe, To-mah-toe," Willow sighed, leaning into Tara.  The blond Wiccan placed a small consoling kiss on her lover's brow.

There was a rumble of extreme horsepower outside the Magic Box and Roscoe Valenti's Black Jaguar slid to a stop on the far side of the street.   

"Okay, show time," Tara said, fiercely. She gave her lover a tiny shake, as she cautioned, "Everyone try to remember, this is very important to Buffy.  Even if we don't like him let's all try to be supportive."

The assorted Scoobies nodded their assent as Buffy's beau stepped out of his parked car.  Through the display windows at the front of the shop the assembled friends got their first good look at him.  There was a collective gasp from all four of Buffy's pals.

"Oh, it can't be," Tara exclaimed, rubbing a hand over her eyes and squinting as she asked, "Is it just me or does he look exactly like…?"

"Spike," Xander yelped, stepping forward to glare as the man loped across the street.

"That is Spike," Willow confirmed, pressing close to the window.

"Well, his hair's different," Anya said, cocking her head to one side, considering, "and he's out in the sunlight, so he can't be a vampire. But he definitely looks like Spike."

"Is he here?" Buffy asked, arriving from the back room, fussing with her hair and adjusting her outfit. "How do I look?"

Luckily, the question was rhetorical.  Nobody glanced in the Slayer's direction.  The bells over the shop door gave a festive tinkle as Valenti entered and Buffy, eyes sparkling, rushed up to kiss his elegantly carved mouth.  He turned his head at the last second so the soft brush of her lips landed on his sculpted cheek and offered her a chaste embrace. The Slayer drew back, frowning briefly, before recovering her equilibrium.

"Everyone," she announced, turning to her buds with a somewhat dulled smile. "I would like you to meet someone very special…"

"I think we've already met, Buff," Xander growled, stepping in, aggressively.

Willow moved hastily to Xander's side and laid a restraining hand on his arm.  She shook her head at him and pointed at the mirror to Buffy's left.  Both the Slayer and her date were reflected in the glass.  Buffy was looking dreamily up at her new beau as he held her hand to his heart.  She was oblivious to the Xander/Willow exchange.

"This is Roscoe Valenti," the Slayer purred.  Obviously, drifting in her own little world, she waved vaguely at the Scoobies, "Roscoe these are my very best friends."

"I-I-I'm Tara," the blond witch stuttered.  Stepping away from Willow and holding out her hand, she regained a bit of her composure, adding, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Valenti."

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," Valenti replied.  He released Buffy and gripped Tara's hand, gently, leaning toward her as he whispered,  "Please, call me Rocko."

"Rocko," Tara breathed out in a dazed way.  Totally ignoring Willow's betrayed glare, she massaged the hand Valenti had held as if it was bringing her intense pleasure to recall his touch.

"I'm Willow Rosenberg," Willow asserted, edging between her lover and this strangely hypnotic male.

"Willow?" Rocko said in a tone of mildly pleased surprise. "Buffy has told me so much about you.  I am honored."

Willow was bristling angrily as the man reached for her hand but as his fingers closed around her own she felt the tension bleed out of her body.  All of the suspicion and hostility drained from her mind.  Rocko smiled at her in a way that seemed to ask for her understanding and support.  His palm was warm, his touch soothing.  Willow knew, instinctively, no harm would ever come to Buffy as long as Roscoe Valenti was there to protect her.  She sighed, staring up into his sea blue eyes.  He really was the perfect man. 

"And this is Xander," Buffy said, indicating the carpenter, who was watching Willow with a puzzled frown on his face.

"Xander," Rocko affirmed, giving Xander's hand a quick manly shake.  

"And I'm his fiancée," Anya inserted, taking Xander's arm possessively.  The beautiful man turned his Caribbean Blue gaze on the ex-demon and smiled but made no attempt to touch her.

"Anya?" he inquired, lifting one brow. "The former Vengeance Demon?"

"Uhckh?" Xander choked, ratcheting back up to hostile suspicion in a flat second. "THE WHAT?"

"Oh, I told Rocko all about our little demon hunting group last night," Buffy admitted with a tiny shrug, adding, "I don't want to have any secrets from him."

"Buffy is a very forthright person," Rocko assured the people who had known her the best and longest.  He pulled the Slayer into a one-armed embrace, as he said, "It's one of the things I admire most about her."

"What exactly did you tell him?" Xander asked, shooting the Slayer a panicky glance, "I mean, besides the Demon stuff?  And you understand," he said, turning to Rocko, "this isn't something WE," he gestured in a tight circle to include the gathered Scoobies, "generally talk about outside the group?"

"Oh, it's okay, Xander," Buffy said, shaking her head at her friend's reaction. "Rocko is one of us now."

"What did she tell you?" Xander insisted.

"Let me think," the perfect man said, making a show of recalling. "I know Buffy is the Chosen One, the Slayer, and that makes her really strong and quick.  And there's a Watcher of sorts…"

"Giles," Xander murmured, heartily wishing the older man was here. "He's in San Diego for the weekend."

"I know Tara and Willow are powerful witches," Rocko continued,  "and Willow was instrumental in defeating a Hellgod…uhm…now what was her name?"

"Glory, sweetie," Buffy prompted and was rewarded with a dazzling smile from Roscoe's full lipped mouth.

"Ah, yes," Valenti nodded, patting the Slayer's hand, indulgently. "Glory, of course. How could I forget?"

"And y-y-you're not su-surprised or anything?" Tara asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "I mean usually there are questions.  I know I had lots of questions."

"We talked it all out," Buffy reassured, before favoring Rocko with another one of those melting looks.  "I told him all about my life and he told me all about his."

"Did you tell him about the dying?" Anya asked, brightly.

"Dying?" Rocko returned, looking down at the Slayer in confusion. "What about dying?"

"Buffy's dying," Anya replied, airily. "You know first she was dead and then she wasn't.  There was a sword and blood and Willow got sparkly.  It was all very exciting. Everyone had a part to play."

"We didn't get into that," Buffy hissed, narrowing her eyes at Xander's fiancée. 

Without understanding quite why, the Slayer had carefully omitted any reference to her own death and resurrection when telling Rocko her life story.  She had also left out any mention of Spike.  She waved one hand now dismissing the subject.

"And besides there isn't really that much to tell…dead…back…that about sums it up," Buffy shrugged, pulling away from the billionaire. "So are we going out tonight or what?"

"Ooh, there's a DJ at the Bronze," Anya said. "Which means they will play music that I hear on the radio and can therefore sing along with rather than a strange band with music that I have never heard before."

"The Bronze sounds great," Buffy agreed, in a satiny tone of voice, as Rocko trailed a hand down her exposed back. "A little dinner and a lot of dancing makes for a happy Buffy."

"We will go then," Roscoe Valenti asserted, with a small tight smile as he absentmindedly stroked the Slayer's bare skin. "But first I insist on buying everyone dinner.  Chez Louise?  And while we dine perhaps I can persuade one of you to tell me a few more of Buffy's secrets.  I admit I am fascinated.  I didn't realize she was quite so enigmatic."

Breaking their contact, the Slayer frowned, lifting a hand to her brow and blinking, as if under the influence of some powerful drug.  She glanced at her date, and felt the briefest frisson of fear.  For a flickering second, Rocko Valenti looked remarkably familiar and then he looked horrifyingly wrong.  Buffy tried to focus on the subliminal change but her date dropped an arm around her shoulder and her glimmer of suspicion passed into hazy memory.


	3. Chapter Three

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

PART THREE

"Hello, Children," Spike said, nodding amiably at Willow, Tara, Anya and Xander as he sidled up to their table.  It was a little after 9:00 p.m. and the vampire had arrived at the bar as a last shot.  He had already checked the Summers' House and the usual patrol grounds and found no Slayer.

He pulled up a chair and sat down around it.  Straddling the chair back, he faced the little circle of Scoobies, leaned his elbows on the table and took a long swig off his beer.

"So, whazzup?" he asked, after swallowing.

Everyone at the table was giving him the fish-eye but it was Willow who finally looked over to the dance floor.  Spike followed her gaze.  Buffy was dancing with a dark-haired twonk in a shiny shirt.  The Slayer was wearing a slinky silver metallic blouse, a tight steel gray skirt and four-inch spaghetti strap heels.  As she danced, her skirt rode up and her boat-neck blouse slid down, exposing lots of sparkle-spangled skin.  Spike lifted a derisive eyebrow at the spectacle.  He was about to remark on the outfit when he got his first good look at Buffy's partner.

Spike cocked his head to one side.  It had been a long, long time since he'd seen himself in a mirror.  He tried to imagine what he'd look like with short dark hair, a salon tan and, Lord help him, a gold cross around his neck.  He sat up straighter, frowning.

"Hey," he said, shooting a sideways glance at Tara, "is it just me or does that bloke resemble…uhm…in this light anyway, from a certain angle…well…me?" The Scoobie Gang tried, collectively, to avoid his gaze.  Spike glanced back toward the Slayer and her partner. "Robot?" he asked, hopefully.

Anya opened her mouth to speak.  Xander cleared his throat, pointedly.  Willow made a small humming noise as she counted the ceiling tiles.

Tara said, "Retired Silicon Valley Multi-Millionaire," she gave a small apologetic shrug, "26 years old, imminently eligible, name of Roscoe Valenti."

Spike sat his beer down with a bang and reached out to grab a passing waitress.  He spun the unfortunate woman around by her elbow, lifted a whiskey sour off her tray and drained the fluid from the glass in one long guzzle.

Setting the empty back on the tray, he ordered, "Bring me six or seven more of these, darling. Doubles! No, Triples! And you can leave out the sour and just make 'em straight whiskey while you're at it."

"Spike," Willow warned, "getting drunk isn't going to solve…"

But the witch didn't get to finish her admonition because she was cut off by an appreciative stir of applause from the crowded dance floor.  People were shifting out of the way, pulling back to make room for Buffy and Roscoe.  Shaggy's _"Dance & Shout"_ was booming from the DJ's speakers and the Slayer and her date were apparently taking the lyrics to heart.  The movements the two were making were sharp and full-bodied falling somewhere between a barroom brawl and a primitive fertility ritual. 

_"Girl! What you gonna do with all that body?"_ Shaggy sang.

Roscoe spun Buffy like a top, reeling her out and jerking her back so suddenly she flipped into the air.  The Slayer did an ariel cartwheel and landed gently, perfectly balanced on her high heels.

_"Careful with that thing before you hurt somebody."_ Shaggy advised.

As her partner outlined her body with his hands, Buffy raised both arms above her head and shimmied down toward the floor, bending her knees and swaying provocatively.  

As she came back up, Roscoe caught her, pulling her into him with one hand on the small of her back.  They took a few whiplash-inducing turns with their hips grinding together and then separated into a series of quick choreographed steps, obviously all about how wrong it was to suppress your sexual urges. 

Do whatever you want, with whomever you want, however you want, Buffy and Roscoe seemed to pantomime as they finished out the number, and preferably do it right here on the dance floor.  The musty scent in the bar cranked up to an almost unbearable level but Spike steadfastly ignored the sensory overload.  His eyes were glinting dangerously.

As the song ended Anya, Xander, Willow and Tara realized at the same time that their mouths were hanging open.  They shut their traps and swallowed in perfect synchronicity.

"Uhm," Xander said, reaching for his wallet, "I think we have to go now."

He looked over at Anya.  The ex-demon was breathing heavily, her eyes were shining and her lips were moist.

"Yes," she breathed out, dazedly, "because we have that…thing…that we have to do."

"Yeah, the thing," Xander agreed, throwing a wad of cash on the table without counting, "and then I want to have sex on the kitchen floor."

Willow and Tara, got up to go as well, exchanging a look that said, _"Ahhh, the kitchen floor…two or three times maybe!" _

"Hang on a minute!" Spike yelped, but the others were already making for the door.  

The waitress arrived with Spike's seven whiskeys and leaned against him in obvious interest.  Spike, however, had more pressing concerns than a randy woman with alcohol. Buffy and her date were headed for the table.  The vampire stood up balling one hand into a fist.

"I don't know what kind of game your playin' at…" Spike started, but Buffy seemed to be suffering from the same glowing distraction that had come over Anya and the Wiccan Lovers.  

The Slayer was hanging onto the sodding gigolo's arm and staring up at him with a sickening fascination.  Spike thought she was suppressing a simper.

"We're going to do some club hopping, guys," Buffy announced, dreamily addressing the table as she picked up her crocheted wrap.  She didn't notice the vampire at all, let alone note he was the only one still present, "See you tomorrow, okay?"

"NO! It's bloody well NOT OKAY!" Spike shouted.  But, the Slayer had eyes only for her date.  She turned and walked away as if Spike hadn't even spoken.  Sliding thorough the crowd, Buffy and Roscoe disappeared into the night. The Slayer never once glanced in Spike's direction.

The blond vampire sat down heavily and stared at his drinks.  After a moment, he tossed the first of the seven back.  His head felt two sizes too big and his stomach swirled sickeningly as if he had the hangover already.

It was nearly two in the morning before Roscoe brought Buffy home.  The Slayer felt like the last unsatisfied woman on the planet.  The dark-haired, hottie danced a great game but this was their third date and as far as she could tell he hadn't even considered making his move.  Sometimes he seemed more like a cardboard cut out than a flesh and blood man.  He was always so formal, calm, and detached.  Buffy was beginning to wonder if she had bad breath or spinach in her teeth or something.  Or maybe, he was just a gay man who loved to dance.  That, she felt, would be the complete story of her life, the final confirmation that the Fates had it in for her.

Roscoe opened the car door and offered her his arm.  Buffy slid out of the Jaguar and they walked, side by side, up the lawn toward the porch.  The light over the front door was out.  The Slayer tensed, certain she had left it on.  There was a subliminal movement in the shadows at the side of the house.  Slayer senses on alert, Buffy peered into the darkness.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," Roscoe was saying, quite close to her ear.

"Yeah?" Buffy replied, in distraction.  She was still trying to focus on whatever was lurking near the porch.  She thought she'd heard the clink of glass on glass.

"Yes," Roscoe confirmed.   Taking her chin firmly in one hand, he turned Buffy's face toward his, looked deep into her eyes and moved in for a kiss.  A joyous and fulfilling tingle washed over her.

_"Finally,"_ Buffy thought, with a little lift of satisfaction. 

A moment later, a fist crashed into the dark-haired man's jaw and he went down hard.

With an incoherent little cry, Buffy rushed to her date's side, kneeling to comfort.  Roscoe was lying flat on his back.  His chin and mouth were already swelling. 

"Keep your zoddin lipsh off of my Buffy, you dodgy Muppet," Spike growled, brandishing a fifth of Southern Comfort at the fallen man. The vampire was clutching the neck of the bottle in three fingers and pointing at Roscoe with his index finger and thumb. "Un'ershtan' me? I won't have you touching her," the vampire slurred. Taking a deep pull of his booze, he swallowed and then continued to rant. "Won't have it.  Think I care about a li'l he'dache, well I don't.  'Cause if my head hursh I don' care…" 

He paused in confusion and put his free hand to his temple, "Hey? Where ish my he'dache?" 

"Judging by your smell," Buffy snarled, her eyes watering from the fumes, "I bet it's waiting for you at the bottom of some bottle."

Spike looked at the fifth of liquor in his hand and a slow smile lit up his face.

"Head don't hurt if I'm drunk?" he asked, in wonder.  Then, he nodded, sagely, "Tha'sh wha' drunk ish for ain't it? Take's away the pain." 

"My toof," Roscoe said, calmly sitting up and rubbing one hand along his jaw. "I fink he broke off one of my teef." 

"Oh, God," Buffy moaned, turning back to her date.  It was official; the Fates all hated her. "Can you stand up? Should I call an ambulance?"

"You should call a hearse," Spike said, pronouncing the words carefully.  He was moving menacingly toward Roscoe again. "'Cause if I ain't got a headache then I don't have to be Mr. Nice Guy anymore."

Buffy sprang up and shoved at Spike with both hands.  The vampire staggered and sat down hard on the porch steps, splashing whiskey.  The Slayer grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him back to his feet. 

"Have you completely lost your mind?" she yelled, giving him a good shaking.  The neighbor's dog started barking and lights came on at the house across the street.  Reining in her temper, Buffy lowered her voice several notches before addressing Spike again. "You can't just go around attacking people," she said, through tightly gritted teeth.

"I can so, Missy," Spike corrected, trying in vain to wrench free of her grip. "Matter o' fact, tha's wha' I do. When I ain't feeling no pain and I ain't got no sweet Slayer in my heart makin' me behave…'Cause it turns out she's a li'l tramp."

"Look," Buffy sighed, releasing him so suddenly he nearly fell, "it was just a date. And I can go on a date if I want to."

"A DATE?" Spike squeaked, incredulously. "A DATE? I saw the two of you at the Bronze with the so-called dancing…and where have you been since then, Slutty? 'Cause that was hours ago!"

Roscoe stood up, carefully, brushing grass and dirt off of his slacks, and asked, "Is there something going on between the two of you?"

"There is nothing going on between us," Buffy snapped, turning back to her escort.  Seeing his unruffled expression, she swallowed down her ire. "Less than nothing. He's my cousin actually." She shot Spike a fierce warning glare before continuing,  "My mentally unstable cousin, William. Down for a visit from the Home.  He's not supposed to mix alcohol with his medication."

"Wha's he got that I ain't got more of?" Spike asked, failing to take the Slayer's hint to shut the hell up.  He stepped in front of Buffy and raked a sneering glance over Roscoe before answering his own question, "Sodding suntan! Tha's what?"

"Yeah, that and a pulse," Buffy confirmed, trying to skirt around the vampire.

"Oh, tha's right," Spike cried, in an injured tone, as he tossed aside his nearly empty bottle, "throw it up in my face, you judgmental little tart!" The vampire made a sudden lunged for Roscoe, snarling, "I can take care of his pulse for him." 

Buffy grabbed Spike's arm and spun him around.  Without thinking, he took a wild swing at her.  She ducked it easily.  He swung at her again, missing by a country mile.  Roscoe snatched up Spike's discarded whiskey bottle and brought it down hard on the vampire's head.  

"--bloody'ell," Spike peeped and dropped like a stone.  Buffy grabbed him as he headed for the ground, breaking his fall a little and getting cold blood and warm booze all over her.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, shooting Roscoe an accusing glare. "I told you he was harmless."

"He didn't look harmless," Roscoe returned, unflappably dusting off his hands. "I thought you might be injured if he struck you."  

Buffy was appalled at the calm, rationality of the man.  She was on an emotional rollercoaster and Roscoe seemed to be watching from the sidelines.  Spike may have been acting like a jealous twit but at least he was expressing his emotions.  They were unreasonably volcanic emotions maybe but heartfelt and real.  By comparison, Roscoe was almost an empty shell.  He was pretty on the outside but Buffy was starting to wonder if there was anything inside the man.

Indicating the vampire with a bob of her chin, she sighed, "I'd better get him in the house."  

"There'sh da he'dache," Spike mumbled, starting to come around.  He fumbled one hand to his brow.

"Okay," Roscoe agreed, with easy acceptance. "I am sure you can handle things, but if there's something I can do just let me know.  I am always ready and willing to lend a hand."

"Jus' bet you are," Spike muttered, groggily, as he struggled to sit up.

The vampire rolled over on his side.  Holding onto a bush, he pulled himself into a sitting position and then tried to stand.   Risking the accidental live-wood impaling, he made a valiant effort and regained his feet.  Buffy tried her best to ignore his efforts.  She made one final attempt to reclaim her earlier feeling of euphoria.

"We'll be fine," Buffy promised Roscoe, moving close and offering him both hands and a dazzling smile.  

Watching her, Spike felt the red twist of jealousy rip into his heart once again.  His eyes wandered over Buffy's body.  He took in the soft fall of her hair and the way her silvery blouse reflected the moonlight.  He noted how her neckline had slipped down to expose one of her glitter-accented shoulders.  And he noticed her legs.  They were good legs to have.  Spike's eyes devoured the line of them from the ankle straps on Buffy's sandals all the way up to the slit in her skirt, which exposed a good bit of thigh.  The skirt itself was so tight it left virtually nothing to the imagination.

"Thanks for a wonderfully unexpected evening," the Slayer's date was saying as Spike mentally traced the outline of her ass beneath the spandex.  Roscoe leaned forward to place a soft kiss in the palm of Buffy's hand, and then he walked to his car, got in and drove away.

By the time the Jag's taillights winked out in the distance, Buffy was completely under Roscoe's spell again.  Smiling dreamily, she pressed her hand to her cheek.  Forgetting all about her recent doubts, she let her fantasies run wild.  He was the perfect man, a prince really and she was going to be his princess.  They would live in a mansion and hire people to slay and…she sighed, "He'll always knows the right thing to say."

"What the hell are you wearing?" Spike slurred, from a few inches behind her. "You look like a six shilling whore."

The Slayer's romantic idyll shattered into jigsaw pieces.  As her fairy tale bubble popped, Buffy became aware of exactly how grimy, booze soaked and trashy she actually looked.  She suddenly felt just like the sort of woman who gets picked up by the police at three in the morning for brawling with her alcoholic boyfriend on the front lawn.

"I HATE YOU!" Buffy spat, bitterly at Spike.  

She shouldered by him, stalking away.  He followed.  She pounded up the steps and keyed open the front door, shoving it violently inward as she entered the house.  Turning quickly, Buffy slammed the door shut in Spike's face.  She snapped the bolt in place and stomped her way upstairs.  Spike tottered for a moment fighting for balance as he fished a set of house keys out of his pants pocket.

"No, you don't," he said, with quiet assurance, before putting all of his concentration into inserting the correct key into the lock.


	4. Chapter Four

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

PART FOUR

Buffy reached the second story of the house and turned into her room.  She ripped off her clothing, throwing each piece at the hamper.  Kicking free of her shoes, she grabbed her pajamas in one hand and headed toward the bathroom.  Leaning into the shower, she savagely twisted the cold tap to full blast, moderating it only slightly with hot.  While the water was heating up to barely warm, she scrubbed a make-up remover cloth over her face.  

With all of the stomping and slamming, Buffy didn't hear the front door open and softly close behind Spike.  The vampire went through to the kitchen.  He carefully selected a bottle of wine from the few choices in the countertop rack.  Pulling the cork with his teeth, he cocked his head to listen.  He could hear the shower running.  He spit the cork into the sink, smiled and started for the stairs.  Pausing on the second floor landing, he drained a good third of the bottle down his throat.

Cautiously, Spike crept down the hall toward the open bathroom door.  He had almost reached it when the shower cut off.  He dived for cover as Buffy ripped the curtain aside with a clatter of plastic rings.  Pressing back against the wall, Spike turned his head to listen and noticed the Slayer reflected in the bathroom mirror.  Her short shower had barely fogged the glass.  Spike froze, watching as Buffy stepped out of the tub.  With unconscious grace, she twisted her hair up into a towel, squeezed a generous portion of baby oil into her palm and rubbed herself down.  Plucking another towel from the stack on the vanity table, she blotted off excess water and oil, sliding the sky blue material along her skin.  The vampire ran his own hands over his body in imitation of her.  

After she was sufficiently dry, Buffy stretched up, tossing both towels over the shower rod.  Naked, she leaned over, shaking out her damp hair and combing through it with her fingers.  Spike squirmed with pent up desire.  Red wine from his forgotten bottle splashed onto the floor and he cursed in distraction.  Buffy looked up.  She reached for her pajamas.  Spike looked around, wildly, but before he could find a place to hide, she had slipped into her PJ shorts and top.  She was buttoning the front of her blouse closed with deft fingers as she came out into the hallway.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked in a soft, almost conversational, tone. 

Feeling totally busted, Spike sagged against the wall.  He turned to face her, leaning into his left shoulder.  Closing his eyes, he clonked his head sideways hoping to beat a sensible answer out of his foggy brain.

Finally, he said, "I got a key," as if that was a sufficient explanation for lurking about watching her shower.  Seeing the glint in Buffy's eye, he added brightly, "And I wanted to use the bathroom!"

"Yeah, Right," Buffy snorted.  She held out her hand palm up, and ordered, "Give me the key."

"Left it downstairs," he replied, nice and cocky. "On the kitchen counter."

"Okay, then," Buffy said, swinging him around by one arm and propelling him toward the stairs.  "Let's go get it, Brewery Boy."

It took all of Buffy's herding skill but they made it to the kitchen.  Spike glowered at her like an unrepentant little boy as she scooped up the house key.  She pocketed it, wondering, how long he'd had access to her home.  As she thought about Spike freely wandering about, she absently plucked a couple of glass shards out of his platinum curls.  He gave her a fuzzy look but didn't comment.  Sighing in resignation, she picked up a dishtowel and dusted more sparkling pieces off his shoulders.  Then with quick efficiency, she set about cleaning and dressing the oddly complacent vampire's head wound.  That task completed she decided to see about cleaning the rest of him.  But first she had to make him stop guzzling alcohol.

"Spike, give me the bottle," Buffy snapped, making a grab at it.

"No! It's mine," the vampire said, holding it over her head.  She reached up toward it and he lowered it behind her. They kept at the game for several minutes.

"Gimme that!", "Mine", "Stop", "No", "Will you just…", "Got to jump for it", "I said GIVE ME THAT BOTTLE", "NO, NO, NO, NO-OHOWW!"

Buffy slammed the bottle onto the counter top, splashing Chianti up in a red fountain.

"Now, take off your shirt," she commanded, in a no-more-nonsense tone of voice.

"Yes, ma'am," Spike said, saluting

He tried to comply but after some time, he was still struggling with the task.  He couldn't seem to co-ordinate his elbows.  He kept pulling the tee up his body, stretching the soft material out of shape but he couldn't seem to get it his arms out of the sleeves.

"Hands above your head," Buffy, finally, snapped.  She slapped Spike until he listened and did as she asked.  With one swift yank, she wrenched the tee shirt up and off before, roughly, shoving the vampire down onto one of the barstools.

"Sit!" she ordered. "And stay sat."

"You are so cute when you take charge," Spike grinned. "Like a…fluffy bunny…fluffy…fluffy…Buffy…fluffybuffy." 

He kept repeating his nonsense phrase as the Slayer wiped the excess alcohol off his chest with the back of his wadded up shirt.  When she'd finished, she leaned in and sniffed at him.

"Yuck," she grimaced. "You still reek."

Tossing his tee unto the counter next to the wine bottle, Buffy went around to the sink.  She turned on the taps to wet a dishrag.  She twisted out the excess water and walked back over to Spike.  He was eyeing her with unadulterated suspicion.

"What you planning?" he asked; shrinking away from the wet rag as if he suspected it was drenched in Holy Water.

"YOU," Buffy clarified, handing him the cloth, "are going to wash up a bit."

"I want to go to the bathroom," Spike announced, trying to get up from his seat.  Buffy pushed him back down.

"Will you quit that?" she snapped. "Vampires never have to use the bathroom, Spike.  It's physically impossible."

"Not imposshibile," Spike slurred, as he started washing, "jus' unlikely.  All it takes is conshentrasshiii…uhm…consentrashhhhuhm…careful thinking about," he said, tapping his temple with one finger.

"What?" Buffy asked, absently.  She was lost in her own thoughts as she watched him rub the washrag over his extremely well defined chest.

"Bodily funcshions," Spike attempted to explain. "Everything still works…'cept the ticker…can't make the heart beat again…it can break…but it can't beat."

"Actually," Buffy said, talking mostly to herself and not really listening to his inebriated little speech, "I've always wondered how you guys ever sober up.  You can't eliminate the alcohol through sweat or urination or anything so where does it go?"

"Evaporashion," Spike replied, showing he was listening to her. "Booze just dishappears. Poof!"  He handed back the rag in a sodden lump and then he giggled, repeating, "Poof!" He grinned.  "Jus' like Angel," he said, making a limp-wristed motion with one hand. "Poof! And he evaporated, too."

Buffy was walking toward the sink to rinse out the dishrag but she turned around at this statement.

"What IS your problem with Angel anyway?" she asked, as if really interested. "Is it all about what happened with Drusilla?"

"Not about Dru," Spike pouted. "Not my fault he's a soddin' chutney ferret, is it?  And you making cow eyes at him all the time…even when he's up and e-vamp-o-rated."

"Okay, fine, whatever," Buffy sighed, wondering why she even bothered with the civilized conversation.  She draped the rag over the sink edge to dry and walked back to Spike. "Let's just get you downstairs."

She tried to lever him out of the barstool but Spike wasn't ready to move.  He had the Slayer's ear and he wasn't finished expressing himself on the subject of his Grandsire.

"He got himself a nice piece of you didn't he?" Spike purred, softly, giving Buffy a look designed to liquefy her insides. "Then he goes and pisses it away.  Prancing around town terrorizing your pals. Sending you gag gifts." He snorted. "Fish on a sodding string! Wouldn't catch me doing that…not in a thousand, million years."

"Yeah, I am sure YOU wouldn't have been nearly as insensitive," Buffy said, sarcastically.  She gave a hard yank on his arm, bringing him to his feet.  Spike staggered and grabbed at her.  Instinctively, she threw her arms around him for stability, pressing into his chest.  The light material of her pajama top left very little to the imagination, in their current position.

"Not sensitive," Spike returned, gripping both of Buffy's shoulders to steady himself and looking down into her upturned face. "I jus' wouldn't waste time tauntin' tha's all."

"Angelus told us everything, you know," he continued, "me and Dru?  How you walked right in on him while he was all hot and fresh from the shower.  How he made you cry.  He was so puffed up about how he crushed your delicate spirit.  So, I says, 'If the Slayer didn't know you were a changed man, why didn't you jus' shag her a few more times?' and the divvy idiot stands there looking at me all slack jawed…like he never would have thought of that."

Buffy was looking up at Spike with a tightly clenched jaw, as he recalled her painful past from this new perspective. She was definitely not amused.  If he'd been sober, Spike would have backed away, as it was he just rambled on.

"Me? That's what I would have done," he confessed, with drunken sincerity.  Releasing his hold on her, he straightened up and declared, "None of this poncing about trying to drive you mad.  Drive you mad in bed…tha's the ticket.  Make no mistake, Luv.  I would've finished you off quick just after.  But, first, I would've given you a right good seein' to."

"You really are a pig, Spike," Buffy snarled.  Lashing out, she pushed into his chest with both hands, propelling him backward.

He staggered and sat down, hard, on the barstool.  He flowed with the movement, reaching one hand back to reclaim his bottle from the countertop, all the while nodding his agreement with the Slayer's assessment. "Tha's me, the other white meat," he admitted, before taking a hardy swig of Chianti.  Swallowing, he brought the bottle to eye level and peered suspiciously at the label before announcing, "Which means this wine is all wrong for me.  Let me speak to the manager." He started laughing at his lame joke and in his giddiness nearly slid from the barstool to the floor. 

Buffy smiled in spite of herself.  He really was the outer limit, she thought.

"Okay, Okay," the Slayer soothed, propping Spike up with her shoulder and divesting him of his bottle for the second time.  "I think that's about enough of that. We just got you cleaned up and it really is time for bed now."

Meek as a kitten, Spike leaned into her.  Wrapping both arms around the Slayer, he let her guide him toward the basement stairs.  Burying his nose in her hair at the curve of her neck, he murmured, sweetly, "Bed, yeah.  Tha's the ticket."

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a certain amount of wrestling, Buffy managed to get Spike down the cellar stairs and safely curled up on the family's folding cot.  A Peppermint Schnapps'' bottle clinked underfoot, as she turned to leave.  Buffy looked down.  There were several more empties next to the washer.  Spike's duster was tossed across the top of the machine.  By the look of things, he had cleaned out the Summers' family liquor cabinet.  He must have been waiting down here for hours.  Waiting, she realized, for her to come home. 

Yanking on the overhead chain, Buffy cast the basement into darkness.  She did a quick check for light leakage, and noticed the open casement window.  The noise she'd heard earlier must have been Spike's Southern Comfort bottle clinking against the windowpane as he pulled himself outside.  Standing on a metal milk crate, Buffy closed the window again.  Reminding herself that the neighbors already thought she was odd, she hunted up foil, tape and black plastic garbage bags to complete the sun block.  

When she was sure the basement was secure from stray rays of death, she went to work on the empty bottles, piling them into a trashcan.  She brushed against Spike's long leather coat and it slipped to the floor.  She picked it up, shook it out and then carefully used it to blanket the vampire's half naked body.  She immediately felt foolish for the gesture.  Buffy knew vampires were heat sensitive but she had no idea if Spike could suffer from the cold.  Nor did she have any idea why she should care if he did shiver a bit.  

Thinking about the concept gave her pause and for a short time she simply stared down at him.  Then, shrugging off her inexplicably conflicted feelings, she turned away, hefted the garbage can and headed for the stairs.  After toting the trash up to the kitchen, she sat it by the back door to be carried out in the morning.  Almost as an afterthought, she wiped off the counter with Spike's glass impregnated shirt before throwing it in the garbage as well.  A bit of sweeping and a little more trash collecting and the kitchen was presentable again.

Sunrise was less than two hours away by the time the Slayer sought her own bed, desperately grateful that the next day was Sunday.  She tossed and turned in a vain effort to get comfortable but eventually, she fell into a fitful slumber.  

A soft thumping noise woke her up about twenty minutes later.  She lay in the pre-dawn darkness, listening to the sounds of the house.  Someone was in the hall.  There was another bump and then she heard the shower running.  Buffy didn't want to investigate.  She told herself, she really didn't want to know what the hell Spike was up to now.  

What did she care if he took a shower?  Let him take half a dozen showers! After all, Buffy thought, it wasn't like he could drowned or anything.   And small loss if he did, she thought bitterly.  She snuggled back into her pillow and started to drift off again.  Of course, her subconscious mind prodded her, he could always flood the bathroom, or totally destroy it trying to peroxide his hair, or create a plumbing nightmare for the entire neighborhood or….  Groaning, Buffy rolled out of bed, conceding defeat.  Half asleep, she padded out her door and down the hallway.

The bathroom light was off.  The shower was definitely on.  Warm steam wafted against Buffy's face as she stood in the doorway looking toward the tub.  After a minute or two, her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the blue nightlight over the toilet.  That illumination coupled with the moonlight from the overhead windows lit the scene just a little too well. 

The first thing she noted was the shower curtain pushed back.  A spray of water was swamping the floor, but the resulting mess was the last thing on Buffy's mind.  Spike was in residence, leaning against the shower's tile wall, eyes closed.  The hot water beat down on him.  He was naked, of course, and almost asleep, it seemed, except for the steady sliding motion of his soapy hands.

A tingle of adrenaline washed the last trace of Morpheus from Buffy's eyes.  She blinked in wonder and had a sudden clear recollection of the Buffybot's extra-perky voice saying, "You should see him naked."

"I mean really," Buffy whispered, unconsciously completing the robot's sentence.

The Slayer wasn't much of a voyeur.  She didn't even watch too many "R" rated movies.  And the one time she had ventured into the "Adult" section of her local video store, she had departed within ten minutes, stifling a fit of giggles.  Not that she was a prude.  She was down with the nakedness of men.  It was just that she was usually naked herself when said nakedness occurred.  Also, generally, she was engaged in other activities.  Buffy, as a rule, tended to keep busy during the naked parts. 

But, suddenly, she was content to stand back and enjoy the view.  Blue light danced in the water coursing over Spike's body giving him a quicksilver shimmer.  His pale skin looked luminous in the half-light, almost translucent.  Buffy let her gaze wander over him.  His ethereal beauty mesmerized her.  It wasn't right, she thought, for something so wicked to be so perfectly formed.

As she looked on, Spike continued stroking his hands across his abdomen and then further down.  He swirled soapsuds back and forth in random patterns. Gradually, his movements became more rhythmic, more concentrated.  He arched against the tile wall, muscles tensing, until he was drawn tight as a ready bow.  Gasping, he mouthed Buffy's name, rubbing his cheek along the edge of the towel she'd used earlier and left on the rod.  

_"Breathing me in,"_ she thought and her heart lurched.  She could feel it thudding in her chest.

The enormity of what she was witnessing hit her and her mouth went dry.  Masturbation, as she understood it, was a very private thing.  It wasn't something she'd ever imagined she could enjoy watching.  But, in the throes of self-induced passion, Spike was wondrous, like a dynamic work of art.  She couldn't make herself look away.

The vampire's eyes were still closed as, quaking, he pushed past the brink of release.  He moaned out her name, his voice louder than the rush of the shower, "BUF-FFY…oh…GA-AHhgghd!" 

She responded with a tiny, unconscious whimper in the back of her throat and his seed pulsed up, spilling back along his skin in a glistening stream.  

Buffy told herself he had no way of knowing she was watching.  But somehow all of this seemed staged for her eyes.  It was as if Spike wanted her to see him; wanted her to understand the pleasure he took in her.  There was a deep sense of intimacy between them as he sighed into sated relaxation.

Neither of them moved.  Buffy had no idea how long it took for her to notice Spike's eyes were open.  He was staring at her, as she stood there outlined in the doorway, his steady gaze full of the knowledge of what she had seen him do.  Buffy felt a hot blush prickle under her skin.  She darted back into the hallway, pressing tight into the wall beside the bathroom door.  Her position was identical to the one Spike had assumed earlier in the evening.  Praying for the floor to open up and swallow her, Buffy listened to the vampire twist the shower taps, shutting off the drone of water.  She heard the whisper of her towel coming down from the rod and the creak of floorboards as he stepped out of the tub.  She turned her head, eyes instinctively seeking the steam-clouded mirror.  She imagined him drying off. 

After what seemed like an eternity to the waiting Slayer, Spike came out of the bathroom.  Her blue towel was wrapped around his waist, covering his nudity.  He stopped just beyond the threshold, glancing over at her.  The scent of her body wash mixed with cheap whiskey, teasing at her nose.  Spike was swaying slightly on his feet.  Still drunk, Buffy thought, as she concentrated on not meeting his eye.  Darn clean though, she conceded.

"I told you," he whispered, with sexy softness. "I needed to use the bathroom."

"Oh," Buffy said, nearly swallowing the sound.  Her mind failed to supply any further comment.  She remembered his earlier insistence but she had, quite frankly, never imagined 'using' to mean…well…what it now meant.

Without saying another word, Spike turned and wandered down the hall toward the stairs.  Buffy stayed put, watching and waiting to see what Naked Vamp did next.  The minute he hit the ground floor the Slayer planned to scamper into her room and bar the door.  Sacred prophecy, be damned, some things she didn't have to face in the dark.  Holding onto the banister for balance, Spike leaned down to heft the wadded tangle of his jeans from the top step.  Straightening, he continued on along the hallway and entered Buffy's bedroom.  After a beat or two, the Slayer followed him.

When she reached her room, Buffy stopped in the entrance and studied the vampire.  Spike was sitting on the edge of her bed, searching the pockets of his jeans.  After a couple of circuits of the pants failed to turn up whatever he was hunting, he tossed them aside with an exasperated sigh.  Leaning back, he stretched across her bed, grabbed the handle of her nightstand drawer and pulled it open.

"HEY!" Buffy yelped, surging forward. "That's private!"

And it was, excruciatingly private.  The drawer held her personal stash of self-gratification essentials as well as the necessary equipment left over from her time with Riley.  There were condoms in her nightstand and flavored lubricant and explicit literature…. and…Spike's cigarettes. The Slayer's mouth dropped open as the vampire fished his pack, his lighter and an ashtray out of her personal, private, nightstand drawer.  Ignoring her shocked sputtering, he lit up and drew in a lungful of blue smoke.

"How long…" she began and then choked and had to start over, "How long have you been…?"  She was afraid to say the next word in the sentence.

But Spike seemed to take her meaning.  

"Since I got the key from Niblet," he said, arching his body like a contented cat.  He ran one hand negligently along his torso as he considered her question. "Since you died, I guess." He took another long drag and released it, saying, "I come here to feel close to you."

It was hard to stay mad after such an intimate confession but Buffy gave it the old college try.

"And when you come here you…what?" she asked, making a vague gesture toward the hallway. "USE THE BATHROOM?!?"

Spike gave her a squinty-eyed look before dipping his head in acknowledgement.  He slid down further in her bed, studying the patterns of blue smoke swirling up off the red-ember of his burning cigarette. Buffy thought back on the number of the times she'd caught the faint whiff of tobacco in her room. 

She blushed again, as she said, "I can't believe you just go into my bathroom and…" 

"Sometimes," the vampire interrupted, in a sleepy voice, "and sometimes I do it right here…in your bed." 

And that was just a little too much information.  Buffy strode over to the bedside and slammed her nightstand drawer closed.  She snatched the cigarette from Spike's hand.  Throwing it to the floor, she ground it under her bare heel, as she growled, "Get out."

Spike yawned and sat up, tensing his abdominal muscles as he swung his feet to the floor.  His eyes were half closed, his movements seductively languid.  But as Buffy started to turn away, his hand shot out at her like a striking cobra.   He yanked her into his arms, flipped her onto the bed and pinned her in less than a second.  

Buffy squeaked in surprise.  She squirmed and Spike shifted to capture her wrists.  He pulled her arms up over her head, holding her down with the weight of his body.  She twisted beneath him, which loosened his towel and brought her into intimate contact with his intimate parts but failed to accomplish anything in the way of retaliation or escape.  

The Slayer cursed her complacency.  She'd grown accustomed to thinking of Spike as bumbling or chip-whipped.  She had forgotten, in their easy familiarity, how brutally strong and quick the vampire was.  From her new perspective, of personal jeopardy and professional humiliation, Buffy suddenly found it easy to remember that Spike had killed two Slayers.  

He was, in fact, closer to her physical equal than anyone else she'd ever encountered.  But brute strength alone would never conquer a Slayer.  Spike, also, needed to be clever and resourceful for the task.  Unfortunately, he was.  What he wasn't was sober.  Buffy decided to surrender.  She took in a deep, cleansing breath and relaxed.  

She focused on Spike's mouth, very close to her own.  She noticed he was breathing in sync with her.  He had white, sharp, slightly crooked teeth, the product of Victorian England's lack of orthodontics, but the curve of his upper lip was flawless.  His bottom lip had a pouty fullness she remembered from their one real and innumerable spell-induced kisses.

She avoided looking into his intense stare as she asked, "Okay? Now what?"

"I won't have him touching you," he snarled. "I won't have it."

"Roscoe?" she clarified, though she knew very well what he meant.  She almost met his eye but a panicky flutter in her chest made her glance away.

Spike ignored her attempt at innocence, characteristically, sticking to his point. "You're mine," he insisted, shaking her by both wrists. "You understand me?  He goes."

"Understand me," Buffy returned, as her icy gaze caught his squarely. "You don't own me.  We aren't one. And your opinion means nothing to me." She paused for emphasis, before amending, "Less than nothing, actually."

Amazingly, Spike's lower lip started to tremble.  His beautiful eyes clouded over in hurt confusion and a single tear splashed against the Slayer's cheek.  Then with a desperate little moan the vampire buried his face in the curve of her throat.  He was a dead weight against her, no longer actively restraining her at all.  Buffy slid her wrists free of his suddenly slackened grip.  His shoulders were shaking slightly as he murmured something close to her ear.  

She strained to make out his words, "Please," he was saying into her hair, "Please, Buffy, don't do this…please…just make him go away."

The Slayer tried to process the sound she was hearing.  "Spike?" she queried, softly, not trusting her ears. "Are you…uh…crying?"

"-no-" Spike replied, in a small tight voice that said_,  "Yes, but I'd rather you didn't notice."_

Buffy couldn't believe this was happening.  She'd made the "Big Bad" cry.  It should have been funny…but it hurt.

Hesitantly, she raised her right hand letting it fall to the nape of Spike's neck.  When he didn't move, she slipped her other arm around his waist, shifting his weight a bit for comfort.  Snuggling closer, he gave a contented sigh against her skin.  She began working her fingers through his hair, petting him and soothing them both.  Slowly, the tension between them bled away.  Buffy didn't think about what she was doing or why.  She let her mind enter a meditative state, concentrating on the repetitive motion of her right hand as she loosened Spike's damp curls, swirling the strands of hair between her fingers.  

They held their intimate position for some time, both at peace, until at last, Buffy whispered, "Alright…I'll tell Roscoe it's over."

Spike didn't respond.  Buffy pulled back until she could look at him.  His face was relaxed in sleep.  She rolled over carefully, taking him, gently, to his back.  His towel was no longer secure but it still covered the essential bits.  Not, Buffy reminded herself, that she wanted him naked.  She pinched his shoulder hard.  He didn't even twitch.

"Out cold," the Slayer murmured, with a tiny shake of her head.

She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked around her childhood room, seeing it for the first time through adult eyes.  She wondered why Riley in her bed hadn't given her a similar insight.  What was it about Spike, Buffy mused, that made her feel more like a woman than a girl?  

The sky outside was growing light.   She padded over to close the shutters, drawing the curtains as an extra precaution.  Looking back at her undead companion, Buffy gave a small sigh.  She knew the intelligent thing to do was to go into her mother's old room, lock the door and leave Spike here to sleep it off.  But, she told herself, he could so easily wake up and get into mischief again.  Plus, she needed rest and her own bed was the best place for getting sleep.  After a bit more soul-searching, Buffy drew back her bed covers.  Spike, lying on top of the comforter, didn't stir as she slipped in beside him.  

Six hours later, Buffy woke to the sound of a loud choking cough.  She peered, through sleep blurred eyes, toward the person standing in her doorway.  Dawn, her foggy mind supplied, home from her sleepover.  Buffy made a mental note of the fact and closed her eyes, again.  Then she moved on to note the arm wrapped snuggly around her waist and the cool body spooned up against her back, flesh on flesh.  She came, instantly and completely awake.

"Boy!" Dawn grinned, wiggling her brows at her sister. "I guess I missed one really INTERESTING party last night."

Buffy started to get up, noticed a towel on the floor halfway to the door, and settled back quickly.  With exaggerated caution, she peeked under the covers at Spike.  He was buck-naked.  He must have heaved off his towel some time during the morning.  Probably, the same time he'd crawled in beside her to cuddle up close.  Carefully, Buffy tucked the blanket down between them, shielding her sister from the more interesting parts of the previous night's party, and eased out of bed.

"Buffy?" Spike muttered, sleepily.  Sliding his hand along the sheets searching for her, he murmured, "Don't go, Baby."

Dawn made a gurgling noise and Buffy hastily pulled underwear, pants and a blouse from her bureau.  Clutching the clothing against her chest, she hurried out the door.  Dawn was doubled over with pent up glee, bouncing up and down in giddy abandon, as Buffy joined her in the hallway.  Pulling the bedroom door closed behind her, the Slayer put a warning finger to her lips.  Dawn started to speak but Buffy shook her head and pointed silently down the stairs.   They made it all the way into the kitchen before Dawn could no longer contain herself.

"Oh, my God," she announced, in a delighted, if sotto voce, shriek as she clutched at her sister's arm.  "You slept with Spike!"

"I did NOT sleep with Spike," Buffy huffed, disengaging her arm.  Dawn pulled a clearly skeptical face and the Slayer amended, "Well, okay, I DID sleep with him.  But strictly in the non-sexual sense of the word.  As in we were both tired and needed a little rest.  And there was a bed…and…"

"So, then," Dawn asked, crossing her arms and leaning back slightly, "why was he naked?"

"How do you know he was…" Buffy began and then sighed, shaking her head. "Dawn, I really can't explain about last night."  She took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with cereal as she said, "You are just going to have to believe me when I tell you it was nothing like it looked."

But despite her ready denial, Buffy was painfully aware of the truth.  It was a whole Helluva lot like it looked between her and Spike.  Something was definitely going on between them, something irresistible.  It made the Slayer's blood run cold and then very hot.  She just wasn't sure what the nature of that something was.  Or even what she wanted it to be.  Part of her wanted these new and frightening feelings to just go away.  The problem was another part of her couldn't help remembering the way Spike looked in the shower and how right it felt holding him in her arms.


	5. Chapter Five

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

PART FIVE 

Buffy had every intention of breaking up with Roscoe Valenti. 

She pulled on her clothes, wolfed down some breakfast and headed for his apartment.  But as soon as she was standing on the threshold facing him, she began to weaken.  And as soon as he touched her cheek, all of her resolve evaporated.  

"Buffy?" the hottie purred.  "This is an unexpected and delightful surprise.  Please, come in."

_"Yes,"_ Buffy's libido whispered, _"come in! Come again! Come often!  Oh, come on…why are we still standing in the hallway?"_

"I…that is…Will…uhm…Willow," the Slayer babbled.  She stumbled back, fighting against the swift current of her hormonal surge. "…is…she's a witch and she's…uhm…waiting…in the car. I just wanted to tell you…uh…something…uhm…about our date…later."

Roscoe frowned at the flustered young woman.  

"You seem flushed," he said.  "Are you sure you're okay?  You wouldn't like to lie down for a minute?  I was just about to take a shower but I can go tell Willow you're unwell and then you are welcome to curl up on the couch or maybe use the bathroom to refresh yourself."  He stepped into the hall as if to usher her inside and Buffy squeaked, retreating along the passageway. 

She held up a hand, dropping down the first two steps on the stairs as she said, "No, not now…can't…much as I would love to do you…I mean…do that…I have to go…to school…cause there's a test…of Big time Evil and…I really don't have time for naked showers…I'll see you tonight…okay…bye!"

Buffy turned and pelted down the stairs in panicked flight.  She didn't slow until she was a good three blocks away.  As she stood panting at the corner of Main and Ventura, visions of Roscoe in the shower merged in her mind with her memory of Spike, holding and stroking himself.  The resemblance was uncanny.  Different hair, not a vampire…but still…in her fantasy, Rocko was remarkably similar in face and form to Buffy's undead admirer.

Desire prickled under Buffy's skin as she recalled the way Spike had moaned out her name in the shower.  No one else had ever said her name with such soft devotion, so it pulsated with need and love.  It had made her feel like a precious thing, fragile and powerful at the same time.  It made her feel protected, like a treasured possession.  Buffy wanted to hear Spike call out to her like that again.  She wanted to hold him in her arms and hear him speak her name. 

"This is insane," Buffy grumbled, aloud. "There is nothing wrong with Roscoe.  He's smart, rich, handsome and totally normal and I am breaking up with him because of Spike.  First Riley and now this.  How many great guys is that peroxided pest going to cost me?  'Use the bathroom' my ass," she groused. "Why can't he just plot my downfall like a proper vampire?"

But her words rang false.  This wasn't Spike's fault.  Or not completely, anyway. There was something about Roscoe that tweaked at her Slayer senses.  Something demon-y.  And it made Spike look like the guy you take home to mother.  Buffy knew her emotional imbalance was a good enough reason to investigate further.  She headed for the Magic Box with a renewed sense of purpose.

        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Damnable energy crisis," Giles growled, as the Magic Box lights flickered but failed to come back. "Rolling black outs.  How do they expect us to conduct business or do research under these barbaric conditions?"

"Yeah, those power company executives have no respect for the Slaying trade," Buffy remarked. "But, this time, I think someone hit a pole 'cause the phone's out, too."  She placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at it for a minute, thinking about her duty to the world and to her sister.  Sighing, she turned back to the group.  Spike was with Dawn; so Dawn was safe.

"Luckily, we have lots of candles," Xander said, cheerfully.  Striking a match, he started lighting up the inventory. "So no need to curse the darkness.  Willow, Tara…break out the decorative sconces."

"Not the unicorn candle, Sweetie," Anya called, as she locked up the cash drawer. "It's $10.95.  Use the standard 8 inch tapers…in green." She came out from behind the counter and closed on the group circle, confiding, "The green never sells. It is puzzling.  Red, Black, Blue…love, death, vengence…all selling well…but nobody seems interested in money spells." She shrugged and then asked, perkily, "Who's hungry?  I am going to walk down to the Deli for some sandwiches while we still have sunlight."

"Thanks, An," Buffy said with a warm smile. Xander's fiancée was really trying to fit in.  "Turkey on rye, lots of veggies, no mayo."

"Not really hungry," Tara said. "Giles?"

"Uhm…yes, I'm buying and let's see," Giles mused.  He absently fished his wallet out of his jeans, removing two twenties and handing the cash to the ex-demon, as he ordered, "I'll have a Greek salad, a diet soda and three of those little brownies with the cream cheese filling…Oh, and ask Song Lee if he has any Halva in yet.  I know he was expecting a shipment and I was so hoping it would…"  Buffy raised an eyebrow at her former watcher, causing Giles' train of thought to derail.  He sputtered for a moment and then drew himself up, defensively, saying, "Well…I have been out of town."

"Yeah, Buffy," Xander grinned.  "Cut Giles a break, those brownie things are to die for."  The carpenter sidled up to Anya, snuggled into her hair and said, "You know what I want, honey." He paused to smirk before adding, "And you know what to get me for dinner, too.  And if I know Willow she'll have what I'm having."  He noticed the others staring at him and gave a little embarrassed laugh, "'having'…in the deli sense…not the sexy suggestiveness sense of  'having'…because I…mmmm…

Anya kissed Xander, effectively, stifling his mindless chatter.  Tara rolled her eyes. A small smile played over her lips as she exchanged a glance with Willow.

"Returning to topic," Buffy prompted, tapping a stack of books.  "My new and possibly demonic main squeeze?" 

"Yes, yes, of course," Giles said.  He adjusted his glasses and studied the bookshelves.  As he took a number of books down and passed them to Willow and Tara, he kept up a running commentary, "Shape-shifting demons, as such, are quite common in this dimension.  For example, there's the Gormeeani, the Belltourus and the Mur K'lukiri…but judging by your rather graphic description of the effect of this particular entity's touch on your bodily functions.  The inexplicable and nearly uncontrollable…urges.  I would say what we are dealing with, in this instance, is an Incubus."

"Oooooo!" Willow breathed, with obvious enthusiasm, "I'm all over it!" Tara shot her a look of hurt confusion and the redhead quickly amended, "But only not literally…just…in a researching sense."

"Incubus?" Buffy asked, with a quizzical lift of her brow. "I'm guessing…some kind of dreaded math demon…similar to the Calculus?"

"Incubus or Incubi," Giles explained, with exaggerated patience, after only briefly staring in a pained fashion at the ceiling, "are an ancient species of soul hunter.  Or, more precisely, the male of the species.  The females are called Succubae or, singularly, Succubus.  They feed on the life forces of other beings. Assuming an irresistibly seductive or familiar form to gain access to their victims.  Once the victim is lulled into a false sense of security, the demon attacks.  Few survive the creature's assault which by all accounts is quite powerful."

"Spike," Buffy thought, "Both seductive and familiar" 

But not irresistible she reminded herself.  She could resist Spike just fine, thank you very much.  In fact, resisting Spike was something Buffy did regularly, like a hobby.  She could do it in her sleep.  Which meant that there must be more to this Incubus thing than looking like Spike.

"Uhm, excuse me," Buffy said, coming out of her reverie and raising one hand for everyone's attention. "I was definitely under some kind of spell. I could feel myself go all squishy, like I lost my will to Slay."

"It says here," Tara said reading from her candlelit text, "'…the touch of the Incubi contains a compound which induces a state of relaxed euphoria.  The compound is similar in molecular structure to chemicals released in the brain during…hhmm…oh, boy…"

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Sex," Willow answered.  She had leaned across Tara to finish reading the passage. "It's all about sex.  That's how the Incubus feeds, Buffy.  It takes on this familiar and irresistible form and then it entices its victims into having sex and…ZAP!"

"Zap?" Xander inquired.

"It turns all shapeless and tentacle-y," Willow said.  She waved at the text her lover was holding. "Look, there's a picture."  Tara turned the book around so they could all see the ink-drawn image of an incubus sucking the life from some maiden of old.

"Holy jellyfish, Batman," Xander commented.  "Or UN-holy."

"And you all think Roscoe looks like Spike?" Buffy asked the suddenly subdued Scoobies.  She was hoping someone would deny it but the other's simply nodded at her.

Willow, noticing Buffy's dejected look, prevaricated, "Well…I mean…he looks like a HUMAN Spike.  Like if Spike…had a job and a wardrobe and was a successful member of society and not…you know…dead and evil and all."

"Why human?" Xander asked, steepling his fingers as if on the verge of great insight. "Why not vampire Spike?"

"Hello?" Buffy exclaimed, waving her hand in front of the carpenter's face like he couldn't see her.  She noticed the blank stare he and the other Scoobies were giving her and snorted angrily.  "I hope we all understand that the Buffy train no longer stops at that station," she clarified, pointedly, as she swept her deadly gaze around the table.  The others continued to look clueless.  With a puff of impatience, she spelled it out for them, "Vampires plus sex equals…any answer but Buffy!"

"Oh, OH," Willow chimed, in sudden understanding.  Using her 'let's not rile the Slayer' voice, she continued, "Yes, oh, YES…Of course, we all know THAT!  We know you have no interest in Spiiii…that is in any vampire at all…in THAT way."

"Right," Buffy nodded, but her tone was less than emphatic as her traitorous mind once again conjured up the feel of Spike stretched out along her body.  She got a tiny thrill at the recollection of his weight pinning her to the bed.  Desperate to redirect her thoughts, she turned on Giles.  She pointed one finger at him, chastising, "You know I blame you for this.  If you had just let me date a few normal guys in High School I bet none of this would be happening."

"See here, Buffy," Giles returned, fiercely, as he glared over the top of a huge leather bound volume of Yalasik's guide to Demonic Shape Shifters, "let's not lose track of the issue at hand.  If this creature is planning to…" the Watcher faltered, "…that is if it intends to…uhm…"

"I believe the phrase you're searching for," Xander inserted, gleefully, "is 'Bang the Buffy Gong'".

"Oh, God," Buffy groaned, in mortification, lowering her forehead to the tabletop and covering her blush with both arms.

"Yes, thank you, Xander," Giles growled, turning his glare on the carpenter. "But I am fairly certain that was NOT the phrase I had in mind."

The older man's face softened as he addressed the Slayer again.  

"This is quite serious, Buffy," he said, gently. "If you are this Demon's…target, you could be in terrible danger.  You have already admitted you are powerless against its…well…for lack of a better term…thrall."

"So," Buffy sighed, raising her head off of the table, "What do we do? If I can't get close enough to touch it then how do I kill it?"

"Why don't you just avoid it?" Xander asked. "Stay away.  Don't let it touch you, cancel any dates…you know, play hard to get?"

"That might save me," Buffy said, doubtfully, "but not the next victim."

"And it could always take on another form," Willow explained. "Once it knows Buffy is onto it."

Nodding in agreement, Tara continued her lover's thought, "It could become anyone. Any of us.  Buffy wouldn't know who her enemy was until it was too late."

"According to Yasalik's," Giles added, reading from the book, "'The Incubus can only be killed by its intended victim and then only by using one of the four elemental forces.'"

"And again? In English…" Xander quipped.

"The Elemental Forces," Tara supplied, her fingers fluttering. "You know…Air, Earth, Water or Fire."

"So," Buffy summed up, "Only I can kill it and I can drown it or burn it or bury it or…what?  Blow it to death?"

Xander opened his mouth to say something caught the steely glint in Giles' eye and converted his saucy reply into a hasty cough.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dawn knocked, lightly, on the door to Buffy's room.  There was no response.  She knocked again harder and waited to no avail.  Closing her eyes, she eased into the bedroom.

"Spike?" she peeped, nervously.  The vampire might not even be in the room for all the sound there was in answer to her call.  She tried again, "SPIKE?"

Fear of seeing her sister's new boyfriend naked kept Dawn's eyes closed as she fumbled her way over to stand next to the bed.   She reached out tentatively, jumping when her fingers touched cold flesh.  With heart-stopping suddenness, a hand gripped her wrist hard and yanked her off her feet.  Dawn let out a single shriek of surprise and pain as she flopped face down on Spike's chest.  

"Bit?" Spike exclaimed, releasing her instantly. "What the hell do you mean sneaking up on me like that?"

"Wasn't 'sneaking'," Dawn corrected, as she tried to get off of him and out of the bed without opening her eyes or using her hands.  She wiggled, ineffectually, about as she muttered, "I knocked and shouted and everything…oof…it was like trying to wake the dead."

"Funny," Spike returned.  He watched the girl flail around on top of him like a fish out of water.  Periodically, he was forced to shift the more vulnerable parts of his anatomy away from her indescriminate elbows and knees.  Finally, tiring of the game, he placed both hands on androgynous sections of the teen's torso and gave her a sharp shove toward upright.  "Did you come in here to practice your comedy act, then?"

"No," Dawn said, finding her feet abruptly on the floor, "It's Buffy!"  She scrambled away, stumbling blindly across the room, as she explained, "She hasn't come home and it's getting dark and the lights are out again and the phone is dead and...."

"Buffy can take care of herself, Niblet," Spike sighed.  "You know that."  Peering at the girl in the half-light, he noticed her eyes were still squeezed shut and had to ask, "Why you got your eyes closed?"

"I…uhm…I thought you might be naked or something."

"Did you, now?" the vampire chuckled, softly.  And then he conceded, soberly, "Well, I am.  But, you might have noticed, during our recent dance…I have a blanket over me. Nothing to see here."

"Oh," Dawn said, recalling the fuzzy barrier.  After a moment, she, cautiously, opened one eye.  Spike smirked at her.  He was totally covered, right up to his armpits.  Dawn noticed he was in Buffy's spot under the blanket.  She felt surprisingly childish and inexplicably defensive, "Well, it's just that, you were naked before…when I came home.  I saw you and Buffy in bed together.  All snuggly.  She said nothing happened…?"

Dawn let the question hang in the air but Spike refused to take the bait.

"If that's what she said," he shrugged, before reaching for a cigarette.  Dawn raised a clearly skeptical eyebrow at him as she took in the crumpled pack of unfiltered regulars, lighter and ashtray on Buffy's night stand.  Spike regarded her coolly.  He pulled a Camel from the pack with his teeth and tossed the rest of the cigarettes back onto the table before taking up his lighter.

"Yeah, okay," Dawn, finally, conceded, half-heartedly.  She glanced toward the darkening window, "but then she went to see that Roscoe guy."

"She went to see Roscoe?" Spike asked, sitting up, quickly.  The blanket spilled to his waist but he made no effort to retrieve it.  Dawn's innocence was the last thing on his mind.  He felt sick at heart.  Plucking the unlit fag from his mouth, he probed the wound. "She went to him…today?"

"This morning," Dawn confirmed, with a nod. "And she hasn't come home and it's getting dark. And Willow said he might be a demon or a warlock or something.  Spike, what if he got mad when she broke up with him and cast a spell or…?"

"Right, well! I guess that answers the question doesn't it?" Spike was muttering, bitterly, even as Dawn rushed out her worries.  "Far as Buffy is concerned, nothing happened last night…nothing at all…" He wasn't listening to his young friend and then he tuned in, sharply, "'When she…', what?  Niblet, what was she going to do again?"

"She was going to break up with Rosoce," Dawn repeated. She scowled, "Weren't you listening?  Right before she left this morning, Buffy told me she was going straight to his place to tell him it was over."

"Over," Spike sighed.  He sank back unto the bed, feeling positively rejuvenated.  He lit his cigarette with a dramatic little flourish and dragged the nicotine into his lungs, releasing it slowly before he continued, "And did she happen to say why she was breaking up with old Roscoe, today of all days?"

"No," Dawn snorted, in total exasperation, "but I thought it might have something to do with the two of you in bed together.  'Cause Buffy was all," the young woman dropped into a mockingly breathless, sex-kitten character and placed one hand over her heart as she quoted her sister, "'Shhh, don't wake Spike'."

"You have a dirty mind, Bit," Spike accused, pointing at her with two fingers and his cigarette.  He suppressed his smile, with some difficulty, as he admonished, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself.  Now hop on out of here so I can get dressed."

"Are you going to find Buffy?" Dawn asked, as she scampered for the door.

"What do you think?" Spike replied, with a grin.

Dawn grinned back.  She felt the weight of fear and worry lift off her chest.  Spike wouldn't let Buffy die again.  He would find her and help her and then everything would be okay.    

END THIS PART


	6. Chapter Six

TANGO

**Author:** 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann

**Characters:** Buffy/Spike and Buffy/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti

**Rating:** R

**Beta Babes:** Mary and Caia

**Synopsis:** This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry…because well…it's just SO wrong eg 

**Spoilers:** Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining…well not really…more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU…Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6!  So…other different Ramifications…and I went totally off canon and then I got all depressed and quit.  Actually this fic was part of the B/S history that led to the events in my fic Cuore Della Notte…but I wasn't able to finish the massive thing (which also includes my version of the Buffy resurrection)…Still, I liked this bit and wanted to resurrect IT!  Even if it's lame.

**Disclaimer:** Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.

_"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance." _

William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"

PART SIX

Twenty minutes later, when Spike joined Dawn in the kitchen, she was feeling much less sanguine.

"Whaddya' mean, you don't know where he lives?" Spike snarled in dismay. As he spoke, he tossed his recently recovered duster onto the counter.  "He's dating your sister.  How could you not know where he bloody well lives?"  

"Hey…just because he's going out with Buffy doesn't mean I'm interested in him," Dawn protested.  "Besides she keeps secrets.  And…and then…even when she does tell me something I don't always listen.  Because you know she loves to yap about the Slayer burdens and house rules and how I don't have _any idea…"_

"Yeah, she will go on."

Dawn grimaced in concentration. "But I think I remember...she said he lived on a tree street?"

"A tree street?"

"You know…like Elm or Oak…only not those. Or maybe it _was one of those…I can't remember…maybe it was Spruce."_

"So you've narrowed it down, have you?"  Spike grumbled.

"Well, at least it's something," Dawn pointed out.  

"Something like thirty-odd streets in this soddin' town named after trees," Spike said sarcastically. "Can't cover more than say two hundred square blocks.  I should find him in no time."

He plopped dejectedly onto one of the kitchen barstools and instantly processed a booze-drenched flashback of cuddling with Buffy on the same spot.  He tried to focus on it, wondering if the remembered feel of her in his arms was even remotely accurate.  A frown creased his brow. Surely they hadn't been wet.

"And maybe it was only _like a tree," Dawn mumbled, somewhere outside the pleasant recollections in Spike's head.  Leaning her chin into her hands, she stared vacantly out the window for a time.  She straightened abruptly.   The quick movement caught Spike's eye and he looked up expectantly. "I bet Willow would know," she said but quickly deflated, again, "Only we can't call Willow because no phone."  She sighed and went back to staring.  _

"I suppose I could go see Red," Spike offered. "Even if she doesn't have the address, she could do a locator spell.  Find the Slayer right quick."

Dawn didn't even glance at him. "You do know you reek like old wino, right?"

"And your point?"

"Willow might not help Buffy's drunken stalker-vamp."

"I'm not drunk," he squeaked indignantly. "It's the jeans.  Must've spilled something on 'em."  

Dawn turned her head to shoot him a give-me-a-break look and he tipped his chin down so he was smiling softly up at her from beneath thick lashes.  He was, judging by appearances, adorably sincere.  Dawn had to wonder if he used the same lame manipulation on her sister. 

"Right," she drawled.  Spike gave up the puppy dog act but still poured on the charm.

"God's truth, Bit.  Not drunk.  Last night is a little fuzzy though," he admitted under the prod of her steady gaze. "Anyway, I can't change.  No time to go by my place and I don't keep anything here but a couple extra shirts anymore." He plucked at the t-shirt he'd taken from Buffy's closet shelf.

"Whatever," Dawn sighed, offering a cold shoulder to his cuteness. She settled back into her seat and started counting leaves on the old oak in the front yard.  Then she blinked. "Oh, wait!"

"What?  You remembered?" Suddenly, Spike was a century older and all business.

"No.  But can't you find Buffy by sniff…smell…super-nose power?"

"Sure, I can." Spike nodded. But before the nibblet could start gamboling with joy, his mouth twisted and he added, "Long as everyone else has left town and there's a clear trail.  As it is, with a head start and busy streets…"

"Bet Angel could find her."

"How much do you make in allowance now?"

"Buffy doesn't believe in allowance.  And yet another reason I miss Mom.  OH!" Dawn froze.  Spike could see the light of some idea spark in her eyes.  "The phone log," she declared and then, with a cape-like swish of silken hair, she was on her feet and heading for the living room. 

"The what?" Spike called, after her.  

She came skipping back before he even thought to follow.

"The phone log," she repeated, waving the tall, thin journal she held in one hand. "Mom used to keep it.  So we would know if she was at the gallery or out shopping or…doing other mom stuff.  Buffy just kind of doodles in it when she's on the phone." She settled onto the barstool beside Spike's and took on a confidential air. "This is how I find out about secret meetings and big time evil."

"By spying," Spike said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, like you're against that," Dawn huffed, turning her attention back to her prize.

The book's denim cover was decorated with hand-written names and numbers and flowers and squiggles. Spike recognized Buffy's looped hand in some of the more elaborate designs.  Placing the log on the kitchen counter between them, Dawn flipped it open to a random page.  Spike read off the memos penned in Joyce's neat hand. 

            3/9 Willow Called– Buffy Library 888-1717 10:30ish

            3/9 Grace McCue 1623 Mercer St. - 555-8128 – pizza and movie – Dawn

            3/12 Public Exhibit – Gallery – 555-6733 – Joyce

Dawn touched a fingertip to the page over her mother's name, tracing the letters.  Her breathing grew a little ragged.  Spike dropped a comforting arm around her shoulders.  Moved by his reassuring touch, Dawn looked up into his face.  Her eyes were brimming with tears.  Spike's expression softened. He gave her a gentle squeeze.  

"I miss her too, nibblet."

Dawn gave a curt nod.  She decided she was too mature to cry.  Sniffling, she rubbed an impatient knuckle across her cheek.  This wasn't helping find her sister.  But before she moved away, she couldn't resist resting the side of her head against Spike's chest for a moment.  The almost forgotten balm of masculine tenderness enveloped her.  It made her feel safe.  

With a tug of real regret, she let it go and resolutely focused.  She fluttered the log pages ahead to the latest entries.  The more current pages were less organized.  Instead of neatly penned lines, they were filled with random doodles.  

Spike was surprised to see his own name repeated in the margins.  Once or twice it was highlighted by a lacy outline.  'She thinks on me', he thought, the burden on his heart lifting.  He steadfastly ignored the repeated arrows and stakes also featured in his name scribbles.

Tilting the book this way and that, Dawn was reading aloud. 

"Willow and Tara, St. Jude's Bake Sale.  What were wiccans doing at…?  Oh, that's right…the miter whosit.  Some kind of cross looking thingee. Child Welfare, Mrs. Broom, ick, witch and not the good kind either. I swear she rides a broom too.  Grogsoaru…Growahgaser…"

"Grougsoruscku," Spike translated. "Demon."

"Hmmm," Dawn hummed.  She turned the page and read on. "Angel Investigations, no help there.  Dry cleaning Thursday.  Principal Zucker…Aha!" She stabbed her finger down on the bottom of the second to last, filled-in page. "Pineapple Terrace. Number 1181, Apartment 2-B."

"Pineapple?" Spike pulled away from her, frowning. "How is that like a tree?" 

"Pine and Apple are both trees, right?" 

Spike simply stared at her for a speechless moment then his mouth dropped open and he rolled his eyes heavenward.  

"Fruit!" He growled at the ceiling before leaning past her to snatch up his duster. "Pine is like a tree.  Pineapple is like a fruit!"

Turning on his heel he stalked toward the foyer.  Dawn was two steps behind him when he reached the front door.  It took a moment to register when she followed him out onto the porch.  He halted abruptly, whirling to confront her.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," she chirped, beaming up at him with bright innocence.  Spike wondered if she used the same lame manipulation on Buffy.  As he continued to glare, her smile faded and she added feebly, "Safety in numbers?"

"Also indoors with the latch locked," he countered.   Taking her firmly by an upper arm, he hustled her back over the threshold. 

"But…but…" she putted, shiny hair flipping about as she resisted his herding.

"I need you to stay here in case Buffy comes home," Spike said.  Dawn stopped fighting.  When he was sure of her compliance, he released her.  "This isn't up for discussion."  They stared at one another for a minute, each assessing their relative positions in the pecking order.  Finally, Spike eased off on the father-figure glare. "Will you be alright alone?"

"Hello? Fifteen? Not a child."

"O' course," he conceded with a dip of his chin.  He started to leave and then turned back, pointing a stern parental finger. "Mind you don't let anyone in though, 'specially not this Roscoe twonk."

"I'll be careful," she said, accepting his authority. 

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buffy poked at the mound of meat and veggies on her deli wrapper.  In the last hour, as her friends conspired to murder the man she was dating, she had haphazardly dismantled her turkey on rye.  Now, she picked at the sandwich like a C.S.I. specialist looking for clues, spreading the remains over an even larger area of waxed paper.  She hadn't eaten much.  Plotting, she rationalized, was hard on the digestion.  Doubts plagued her.  

Her Slayer senses were quivering, she couldn't deny it.  But there might be a simpler explanation for the quiver than 'I Married an Inbcubrick' or whatever.  Roscoe looked like Spike. That was the extent of his sin.  He hadn't done anything demon-y.  All he'd done was make her feel special.  What if the pricking of her thumbs, and other parts, was because of Spike?  Buffy could see how wanting a soulless fiend in the worst possible way might trigger some extrasensory tingle.  Maybe she should mention that alternative before they actually killed Roscoe.  Maybe she should stand up and say, "I want to get horizontal with my former mortal enemy.  Does that seem relevant to anyone?"  

Buffy was afraid Rocko might be an innocent bystander.  Just another man swept up in her misguided obsession with Spike.  _Welcome to the jungle, Riley Finn._  

Yeah, she was pretty darned obsessed.

_Hello. My name is Buffy S. and I'm a vampaholic.  I admit I am powerless in the face of…his face…chiseled perfection with those full lips and killer blue eyes…and working down…there's his throat…and chest and…those rock hard abs…skilled hands doing naughty things…. _

"I think we should go with Fire," Tara said, jerking Buffy out of her preoccupation with demon parts. "If we tie him up first…"

"Right," Willow agreed. "Easy to arrange, less chance of a slip up, no questions after."

"If nobody sees us setting up the stake and woodpile," Anya said. Before taking another bite of her chicken salad she added, "And then there's the smoke.  There are ordinances inside the city limits, you know?"

"We'll be careful," Willow insisted.

"Anyone else get the wiggins from the witches suggesting we burn someone at the stake?" Xander said, holding up a hand. 

"It's better than burying him alive," Buffy croaked. She glanced around the table.  Nobody could meet her eye.  Feet shuffled on the floor.  Xander's fingers drummed nervously.  After an uncomfortable pause, Giles cleared his throat.

"Yes…well…" he said. "It would seem to me that drowning is the next safest option.  Should something go wrong we could always say it was an accident."

"Not a big fan of the drowning either," Buffy grumbled.  She could vividly recall the icy stab of water in her lungs.  She shuddered at the notion of forcing someone to breathe in liquid.

"Besides," Willow said. "We would have to get him to the docks."

"Buffy could ask him to meet her," Giles argued.

"And then into the water," Willow continued.

"One of us could give him a decisive push."

"W-what i-if he fi-fights us?"  Tara asked. "W-won't we have to hold him under."

"Buffy could…"

"Buff still has to breathe," Xander countered. "Once they go in the drink, he could get the upper hand or tentacle.  I say we all go in there and overpower him. Tie him up.  Toss him in."

"We could be seen at the river," Buffy said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Even if Rocko isn't trussed up like a turkey, someone might get suspicious, especially if they try to help with the," she air quoted the phrase, "'rescue effort'."  

"And this is assuming he can't breathe underwater," Anya remarked.  Argument ceased.  Heads swiveled in her direction.  The rest of the gang stared at her open-mouthed.  As the ex-demon took a nonchalant sip of soda, Willow darted a quizzical glance at Xander.  His dark eyes flashed.

"Anya," he rumbled, "What do you know about Octo-boy?"

"Nothing useful," she shrugged, setting her can of pop down. "But I do know lots of demons don't need air.  We would all look pretty silly flailing around trying to drown someone who doesn't need to breathe." 

"But the book said the elements," Willow protested, pointing at the tome in front of Tara.

"Water," Tara agreed, nodding.

Anya heaved a huge sigh. "Just because water can kill it doesn't mean it will die like a human."  She caught Giles eye and the corner of his mouth twitched up. "We need to make sure.  And consecrated burial is usually reliable."

Buffy was shaking her head. "I don't," she began but Giles interrupted her.

"Anya's right," he conceded. "I'm sorry Buffy.  It will have to be Earth." Seeing the distaste on her face he capitulated slightly. "Unless something better comes to light in the next few hours.  I will, of course, continue researching.  The rest of you should start digging a pit in the woods."

"Consecrated," Anya reminded but Willow was already out of her chair and searching for holy water. Tara went to the shelves behind the cash register and lifted down the rosewood box of assorted religious talismans.

"I should go check on Dawn," Buffy said, rising. "Meet you in Miller's Grove?"

"You bring the piñata," Xander joked, helping the Slayer into her light jacket.

Buffy didn't even smile.  Something about all of this felt wrong.  She was still wrestling with what could only be guilt as she started the walk home.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frowning over the dank aroma in the stairwell, Spike made his way to the second floor of the brownstone apartment at 1181 Pineapple Terrace.  He paused outside the door of 2-B, listening for any movement behind the wood panel.  The apartment was quiet.  Though he had no hope of entering, Spike tried the latch.  

The knob turned easily under his hand and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was a heavy door, solid oak.  The weight of it carried Spike a step or two over the threshold.  He stumbled slightly, expecting a barrier and meeting no resistance. 

'He's dead,' Spike thought.  The burgeoning jubilant smirk vanished from his lips when he noticed the too familiar figure seated on the far side of the room.

"Hello," Roscoe said, politely. 

Bewildered, Spike turned to look over his shoulder into the hallway.  He assessed his position relative to the threshold.  It wasn't his imagination. He was definitely inside the git's home. Slowly, his head twisted back around until he was once again staring at Buffy's dream man.  

The wanker was dressed conservatively in a dark blue turtleneck shirt and jeans.  Slouching on the sofa, he looked the picture of relaxation. He had a book of poetry in one hand and a glass of sparkling cider in the other.  Unlike Spike, he didn't seem the least bit ruffled by the impromptu visit.  Moving with exaggerated care, he sat up straight, placed his drink on a coaster and then rose with fluid grace.

Spike started to make the accusation even as it occurred to him. "You're not…"

"Human?" Roscoe finished. He chuckled in easy amusement.  "Alas, no."  After marking his place in the volume of poetry with a pink silk ribbon, he set the book on the coffee table. "But then…neither are you, Cousin William."

"Spike," the vampire corrected, eyes narrowing.  He felt off balance and bristled, growling a warning as the other demon began to close the distance between them in slow languid strides.

"Of course," Roscoe said, wafting his hand affably. "There's no reason for the two of us to stand on ceremony.  You may call me Rocko."

'Or the _late_ Rocko,' Spike thought.  A slow deadly smile lifted the corners of his mouth.  His rival was a demon.  It made things much simpler.  "You haven't heard of me then?" He asked softly, steely gaze fixed on Roscoe's jugular.

"No," Roscoe purred from only a few feet away. "Should I have?"

"Got a bit of a reputation in these parts," Spike bragged. "Demon killer."

"Oh, do you?" 

The prey appeared mildly impressed.  He didn't, however, seem overly concerned.  It was as if they were making cocktail party small talk and Spike had just confessed to being something of a big game hunter. 

"You help the Slayer then?" Roscoe went on. "And here I was thinking you planned to kill her." He made a little moue.

"We work together, me and Buffy. Side by side."

"Ah," Rocko sighed out the syllable.  He shifted a bit to the left to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in a decorative mirror. What he saw engendered a tight-lipped smile and an enigmatic nod. "But, of course." Straightening, he tilted his head and ran a keen eye over Spike's profile.  "I can see the resemblance, now.  You're her ideal."

"Her what?" Spike asked, absently. He wasn't really listening, only waiting on opportunity.  His fingers had curled into fists at his side. One more step and the git would be in range.  Spike planned to rip his soddin' head off and sort it out with Buffy later.  _Sorry 'bout your squeeze, luv.  Demon, you know?_

"Her ideal," Roscoe repeated, taking the crucial step. "The man of her dreams. Her sexual soul-mate."

Spike didn't throw the punch.  Instead he gulped. "Her sexual…?"

"Soul-mate," Roscoe breathed the word.  He was standing too close, violating personal space.  Spike could feel the warm stir of exhaled air against his cheek. "Her true love. The one most likely to…have his way…or…let's see…how would you put it? Get a leg over?"

"I think you've got the wrong vampire, mate."

"Oh, no," Rocko chuckled sensually. "There can't be three of us.  Or am I slipping?" He checked the mirror again. "Surely you see the likeness."

Expression stormy with confusion, muscles coiled to spring, Spike hesitated.  He felt like an attack dog pulled up short on a tight leash.  He couldn't quite sink his teeth into the situation. There was something he was missing, some vital piece of the puzzle. 

"You look like me…so…?"

_Incubus!_

The image flashed in Spike's brain.  He tried to stop the insight from reaching his eyes and failed.  His failure bloomed into ropey-tentacled horror.  Roscoe's maw stretched wide even as Spike launched his body sideways in a desperate bid for escape.  There wasn't even the suggestion of a fight.  There was only blinding pain and darkness.

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night was getting colder.  Buffy barely registered the change as she raced along nearly empty streets.  She had the hilt of a slender scimitar clenched in one hand.  Her booted heels beat out a frantic rhythm. Fire, Water, Earth, Air!

_What was he thinking? If he hurt Roscoe…If Roscoe hurt him…_She heard Giles intoning in her head._ 'An incubus can only be killed by its intended victim…' Ooohhh…why is he always such a bonehead?_

"I'm the Slayer, Spike," she panted, as she made the corner at Pineapple Terrace. "I can take care of myself."

When she reached Roscoe's building, she didn't hesitate. She punched open the after hours security lock.  Thankfully, there was no alarm. The electric was on at last and the way was well lit.  She took the stairs three at a time, bounding up them.  Her mind kept repeating the elemental forces.  _Fire, water, earth, air…fire, water, earth…air?__  How the hell do you kill something with air?_

The door to 2-B was ajar.  Buffy caught sight of it and braked sharply.  There was a busy crashing coming from inside the apartment.  It sounded like someone was trashing the place.  Buffy crept forward, sword pointing the way.  She used the tip of the blade to nudge the door wide open.  As it swung in, she drew back her weapon to strike. A swirl of black leather near the fireplace stayed her hand.  A brass horse head bookend and several volumes cascaded from the mantel to the floor with a rustle and thud.

"Oh, for the love of…" The Slayer's voice was harsh with pent up emotion. "What do you think you're doing?"

Spike started.  He whirled to face her, ready for a fight, but immediately dropped his guard.

"Bloody hell, Slayer," he pouted. "Are you trying to scare the afterlife out of me?"

Ignoring his question, Buffy did a quick visual sweep of the premises.  What she could see of the apartment was a wreck.  There was broken glass, books and papers on the floor.  The stuffing had been ripped from the sofa and scattered all the way to the kitchen.  The coffee table was in splinters.  There was no sign of Roscoe.  Buffy felt the tension bleed out of her shoulders.  Her sword arm relaxed to a neutral position. 

"Where is he?"

Indicating a bluish lump on his forehead with one hand, Spike gave a fluidly dramatic shrug. "Scarpered off while I was out cold." He arched his uninjured brow at her and confided smugly, "He's a demon, you know?" 

"Yeah," Buffy sighed.  "I got that."  She let her sword point dip to the ground as she stepped into the apartment and closed the door. "And now, thanks to you, he knows I know."

"Are you saying this is _my_ fault?" Spike asked indignantly.

"Well, let's see," Buffy said, making a show of thinking it over. "Who else could have warned him to skip out?"

"Maybe he was just following the Buffy Boyfriend pattern," Spike sneered. He pointed an arm toward the window. "They do seem to head for the horizon with alarming regularity."

"And yet you linger," Buffy returned, but her tone was more preoccupied than angry.  

Her attention was focused on the darkened doorway to the bedroom.  Slowly, she padded over to it, cautious as a cat.  She paused just short of the opening.  Her free hand darted out to flip the light switch and she pulled back fast.  The sudden retreat brought her into painful contact with Spike.  He was shadowing her.  Buffy puffed out an impatient snort and shoved at him with her elbow.  Spike gave little ground.  They peered around the doorframe together.

The room was empty and, as yet, unscathed by Spike's wrath.  Buffy took in the swanky décor.  Roscoe had upscale tastes.  He'd chosen tasteful tribal carvings and abstract art for the walls.  His king sized bed was swathed in dark green satin.  Exquisitely crafted lamps flanked the upholstered headboard.  A sweating ice bucket on the bedside table held an equally water-beaded bottle of wine.  He had apparently been expecting company.  Buffy tried not to think about the night she might have had.  

"Check in there," she said, waving Spike toward the closed bathroom door on the far side of the room even as she edged around the bed to inspect the closets. 

"He's not here," Spike said. "I've been through the place."

"I want to make sure," Buffy growled.  

She watched distractedly from the corner of her eye as Spike crossed to the bathroom.  He paused, glancing back at her when he reached the closed door.  Buffy tried to concentrate on the smooth slide of the closet shutters in response to her tug on the handle.  A flicker of movement near knee level grabbed her entire attention.  There was something alive amid the clothes.

Gargling in surprise, Buffy backpedaled to the center of the room.  The low scurrying in the closet seemed to mimic her.  It stilled when she did.  After waiting a heartbeat or two, she inched forward again all senses on alert.   She used the flat blade of her scimitar to push aside folded pants and suit coats until she could see more clearly.  There was a large mirror leaning against the back of the closet.  Her own reflection had startled her.  

"Still nothing," Spike said from the other side of the room as he shut the bathroom door firmly.  "What have you got?"

"The mirror has one face," Buffy said, letting the curtain of clothing swing back to cover the looking glass. "And it's mine."

"It's a beautiful face," Spike said softly.  He was standing near the bedside table.  Reaching under the lamp, he hefted the wine bottle out of its melted ice bath. "Someone else thought so too, judging by this.  Good year and all."

"You know from wine?" Buffy said, coming around to face him.  She sounded grudgingly impressed.

"A bit," Spike admitted.  He pulled the cork of the bottle with his teeth and spit it across the room, losing all of his wine expert points in one gesture.  "Do we need glasses?" he asked.  

Buffy shook her head.  She took the offered bottle and toasted him with it before guzzling.  Flipping the tail of his duster aside, Spike settled on the edge of the bed.  He tilted his head, smiling up at his girl as she drank.  She was a beautiful creature.  He considered the pulse of her throat as she swallowed.

'So perfect,' he thought. 'So powerful.  And she's mine.'

In a choking ashy silence, dark as the pit, he waited. He could hear them talking, moving about.  They were close.  Just behind the wall in the bedroom.  Their voices came to him clearly.  Other sounds came as well.  The bounce of a cork.  The creak of the bed. The liquid swish of wine in her mouth.  

Over the bitter stench of old charcoal, he caught the stinging hint of alcohol and the lemony sea breeze scent of her desire so strong, so compelling.  

_Any second now she will tumble to it…any second she will know._

But the seconds dragged into minutes and still there was no scream.  No thump or bump of struggle.  There were only soft contented sighs and the gentle repetitive squeak of bedsprings.  Spike tried to move, to twist free of his bonds, knowing by now it was useless. He was stuffed halfway up the chimney, gagged and wedged tight.  And Buffy was about to die.


	7. Chapter Seven

TANGO  
  
Author: 1stRab-id/Rabid/Raeann  
  
Characters: Buffy/Spike and Buffy/Roscoe(aka Rocko) Valenti  
  
Rating: R  
  
Beta Babes: Mary and Caia and Zyrya  
  
Synopsis: This is the story of Buffy's attempt to return to dating and put her craving for Spike behind her and how that plan goes seriously awry...because well...it's just SO wrong eg  
  
Spoilers: Up to the Season 6 Eppy Bargaining...well not really...more like to "The Gift" because after that I went all AU...Willow brought Buffy back with SPIKE's help and there were all kinds of ramifications but not the same ones we have in S6! So...other different Ramifications...  
  
Ramifications: Or why did this part take 3 years to finish? The finale of Tango references the first of four proposed stories in the CDN canon: a fic called Heart in Hand. Unfortunately, HIH will never see the light of day. But a major event in HIH is addressed in Tango...and so I was torn about how to present this event to an audience that never read HIH. How much background info to give...how much to cut? I will tell you...my HIH resurrection spell...went BAD in a really bloody fashion and then...during the BAD...something happened between Buffy and Spike. Buffy until now was blissfully unaware of the BAD. Read on to learn more!  
  
Disclaimer: Obviously everything belongs to Joss because if it belonged to me I would be in the bloody loop wouldn't I? Anyway, all hail the genius of Joss Whedon and Co. and don't sue me for being insatiable in my longing for B/S interaction.  
  
"Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance."  
  
William Shakespeare from "A Winter's Tale"  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
Spotlighted by the high beams of a parked apple red convertible, Xander Harris stood waist deep in a hole, digging with mechanical vigor. The temperature in Miller's Grove had dropped rapidly in the last hour. It was now somewhere in the mid-sixties. Xander hadn't noted the change. He had stripped off his lumberjack plaid shirt, knotting it around his hips like a skirt. Despite the chill in the air and his partial nudity, sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped off his nose. His manly muscles glistened in the halogen light. Anya, seated on the car's hood, swung one foot in unconscious feminine approval.  
  
"So if this Incu-whatsit can look like anyone," Xander asked, pausing to wipe his brow with a dangling sleeve, "And not just Buffy's dead-boy dreamboat, then why doesn't it Body Snatch one of us?"  
  
Anya sat up in alarm. "And then what?" she asked huffily, crossing her arms. "Have sex? Like it would be that easy? All you have to do is wiggle your ears and Buffy would just swoon into your arms?"  
  
"Wiggle my what?"  
  
"Uhm...indeed," the fully clothed but equally laboring Giles panted. "It isn't tha-at simple. Sex-sex-ual predation...according to Maloney's Compendium, there are limi-limitations to the way...the spell...the...." Obviously in some distress, he stopped shoveling and tried to catch his breath. Xander waited patiently. After a moment of two, Giles was able to continue. "Usually it is only the victim's ideal that is manifested. The creature feeds on sexual energy. The more intense the victim's desire the more prolonged and fulfilling the feeding process. There was an annotation on page 187."  
  
He waved an impatient hand at Anya. She took time off from glaring at her fiancé to twiddle her fingers. Giles grimaced. He was trying very hard not to take the girl's short flouncy dress and impractical pink stiletto- heeled sandals personally. Perched on the hood of his car, amid a pile of his ancient tomes, she looked as bright and fresh as a spring day. With a little more prompting, she caught on to the idea of locating the volume in question. Opening the book to the suggested page, she read the first underlined passage aloud.  
  
"'Much has been made of the subterfuge of the Suc/Incubi however, in large part these stories are apocryphal'...blah, blah, blah." Her finger traced down the leaf until she found the relevant passage. "Ah, 'the victim's innate desire is crucial to the satiate point. Detailed copies of individuals intimately known to the victim are rare and believed to be ephemeral. Studies indicate that some imprinting must occur prior to the transmogrification and only by preserving the original model and keeping said archetype in the immediate vicinity can a true duplication of a friend or family member endure'."  
  
"Oh, now I get it," Xander drawled, obviously completely baffled. He rolled his eyes to show the extent of his frustration. Puffing out a breath, he thrust the blade of his shovel into the tightly packed dirt and stomped down hard to break ground.  
  
"It's really very simple, Xander," Willow and Tara intoned together in a spooky combo-witch voice that made the young man start in dismay. His spade- load of earth flew off in a random direction, scattering against the wall of the hole.  
  
"Okay, don't do that," he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the pair.  
  
They ignored him and went on speaking, words issuing from both throats. "The Incubi can't incubate you if you're not around. So it has to keep you close."  
  
They were floating near the edge of the pit. Hands clasped, eyes closed, they hovered a few inches off the ground. A pale greenish aura surrounded them. As they spoke, they levitated a hefty scoop of soil. The dirt rose under their urging and threw itself onto their excavated pile. Giles felt a twinge of resentment.  
  
"Which is why," he gasped, seizing the opportunity to stop working. "I felt we should avoid separating."  
  
"Also 'many hands make light work'," Anya trilled, without looking up from a detailed examination of her nails.  
  
Giles glared at her. "Indeed," he hissed. "And could you please explain again why you don't have a shovel."  
  
"Shovels are expensive," Anya said. "A better question is: Why don't any of you own one? When I said I would pay for supplies I had no idea I would be purchasing capital equipment. You would think the slayer would have buried someone before now."  
  
"We are clearly lax," Giles huffed.  
  
Anya nodded a gracious acceptance of his point before continuing. "Since I provided the cash to purchase the shovels and the refreshments it is only fair that the rest of you provide the labor." She tugged a coiled instrument from one pocket and waved it at him. "Also, I was the one who remembered the battery powered beverage heater. Now, who wants cocoa and who wants instant soup?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Dawn drummed her fingers on the tiled counter and stared at the blank sheet of paper resting expectantly under her poised pen. She knew she was taking her life in her hands. Even if she left a note, Buffy was probably going to kill her for going out after midnight. If by some stroke of good fortune she survived her sister's tirade, she would still have to withstand the wrath of Spike. A summer in the vampire's care had left Dawn with no illusions about her chances of getting away with anything. Spike was merciless and he could smell a lie on her before she thought to utter it.  
  
She would have to go with the truth. A glance at the digital clock display on the microwave showed it blinking 2:15 a.m. It was the wrong time but a good indication of how long she'd been waiting for word. She couldn't wait any longer.  
  
Buffy had breezed in and out again a few minutes after the power came on. Sword in hand, she'd dashed off to intercept Spike. But she'd promised to call from Roscoe's place. Pineapple Terrace wasn't that far away. Yahoo Maps put it at nine minutes. That transferred to twenty at reasonable Slayer speed. Something had gone wrong. Dawn wondered, what she was supposed to do. Go to bed and hope everyone was still alive in the morning?  
  
The phone was working again but offered no help. Nobody she called was at home. Finally, she'd decided to call a cab. By the time the taxi honked, she was geared up. She had a crucifix choker around her neck, a stake in her pocket and a spray bottle of holy water to tote. She was ready for anything. But the note had her stymied. The cab honked again, impatiently. Dawn jotted down a line.  
  
"Gone to Roscoe's to check on you."  
  
The cab driver leaned on the horn.  
  
"Back soon. Love—" She hesitated a tick before adding the diminutive, "Dawnie." Maybe it would pacify her guardians.  
  
A movement outside the window caught her attention. She snatched up her improvised water pistol and bolted for the door. The taxi was backing out of the driveway. She waved wildly at it and it braked in the street. The middle-aged man behind the wheel glared at her. Approaching at a trot, Dawn motioned for him to roll down his window. He complied and, without slowing her step, she raised her spray bottle and squirted him right between the eyes.  
  
"What the hell did you do that for?" the surprised cabbie asked, wiping beads of water off his uninjured skin with the side of a hand.  
  
"It's the newest thing," Dawn called out over her shoulder. She was halfway around the front of the car. She continued to the passenger's side rear and popped open the door. Before she got in she leaned over to ask a question. "What's the code word?"  
  
"The what?"  
  
Dawn took a giant step backward, scowling. One hand fumbled in her jacket pocket for her stake. Wishing she had thought to bring a knife she did a quick visual sweep of the perimeter. Nothing stirred along the darkened street. The cab driver was staring at her in his rearview mirror. Dawn took some comfort from his reflection but she knew there were plenty of reflect-y demons in Sunnydale.  
  
'Also very bad men,' Spike's voice sounded in her head.  
  
"My mom always gives a code word," she said firmly. "You better call in for it."  
  
"Kids," the cabbie muttered, shaking his head, but he reached for the radio handset. He thumbed the talk button and spoke into the device. "Sally, you got some kind of code word for my fare? Come back." A crackling, tinny, faintly feminine voice came from the dashboard speaker.  
  
"That would be 'WANKER', Tim," the voice said.  
  
Tim, the taxi driver, rotated his bulk around in his seat to until he was facing Dawn. "Wanker?" he offered. She gave a terse nod and ducked her head to climb into the car.  
  
"My sister lives at 1181 Pineapple Terrace," she said, primly as she settled into the back and buckled up. "She's expecting me."  
  
Tim sighed. Some nights he really hated this job.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
There was a faint noise in the other room, the soft shush of soot showering from the chimney.  
  
"What was that?" Buffy mumbled. Her lips felt numb and swollen. She wasn't certain they belonged to her.  
  
When Spike failed to answer, she pushed fretfully against him. She might have been a newborn trying to move a mountain for all the good her shoving did. Her usually obedient limbs were slow to respond. Muscles, formerly rock hard, wobbled like poached eggs on a stick as she struggled to break free of Spike's suddenly overpowering attraction. He was everywhere. His eyes mesmerized her. His grip was fierce, bruising her. Buffy found she didn't really want to fight against it. She wanted to surrender.  
  
'We were meant for this,' she thought, 'meant for each other...it was only a matter of time.'  
  
Why fight the inevitable?  
  
Why fight? Why?  
  
It was an alien voice in her head. The words formed a litany of persuasion, harmonizing with all her well-remembered reasons not to do this: Spike was a vampire, evil, soulless, chipped, dead, Slayer killer.  
  
'He is so not my type,' she thought. 'Besides he likes it when we fight and so do I. I'm the Slayer...Not a Vamp-Slut...like Riley...Riley would get the last laugh... okay I don't care about Riley...but Giles...my friends, my reputation, resurrection mojo, really bad boyfriend choices for two hundred Alex.'  
  
Buffy knew she was mentally babbling, drifting lazily down a muddied stream of consciousness. It occurred to her she was drunk. She felt buzzed, woozy and not quite solid. Her toes had gone numb. Her feet seemed to be floating a few inches above the sheets. She craned her neck to look down and the room did a crazy dip and swirl. She really was out of it. The unusually potent wine and the heady rush of Spike had acted on her with amazing speed. She hadn't realized how tense she was, how tightly wound, until she'd started to relax under his gentle urging. And now, she was too malleable, dangerously off her game.  
  
Spike had moved in slowly, coaxing her closer. He had started by kneading her shoulders with those wickedly talented fingers. The massage was an allowable intimacy. She'd melted into his lap, snuggling up. When he'd kissed the bare curve of her neck it had burned, exactly as Buffy had always imagined it would. She offered no resistance when his arm encircled her waist and guided her down to the mattress.  
  
There was no reason not to surrender. It was nearly preordained. Spike made her tingle in all the right places. And yet...and yet...the nature of the tingle was all wrong. Dim images floated through her mind like a half- remembered dream. Images of Spike locked against her, flesh pounding flesh, in a brutal union. They were both growling, licking, biting. He was beneath her, inside her. His hands clawed along her skin. They rolled across the ground together. There was hard-packed dirt under her bare backside. Sharp stones cut into her like his nails. The scent of her blood was intoxicating.  
  
She could almost feel the tug of his teeth at her throat. The sense memory gave her a moment of clarity. Spike had bitten her. She was sure of it. Her fingers fluttered helplessly, determined to find their way to her neck. She knew she had scars there.  
  
Angel had marked her...Dracula...the Master...  
  
And Spike...?  
  
Her hand hovered indecisively in mid-air and then settled to her breast.  
  
Yes...there...underneath...she had a crescent-shaped scar...Spike...and further down...on her inner thigh...there was another mark.  
  
He had taken her blood...their blood...he had drained his gift away...in the caves...near the Initiative...  
  
Buffy tried again to focus on the foggy recollection. She couldn't bring the mental picture in sharply. She remembered afterward. Waking up in the caves, she'd been weak-kneed and limp as if recovering from a long bout of fever. She remembered Spike...solicitous, so unlike himself...tending her wounds. He'd made her drink a noxious broth full of herbs: powdered angelica root, ash leaves and garlic. Despite the deep ache in her body, she'd made a joke about vampire bane soup. Spike hadn't so much as cracked a smile.  
  
He'd helped her sit up and watched as she drank down the concoction. When he'd tried to pillow her head on his shoulder, she had pushed impatiently away, demanding an explanation. He had stared long and hard into her eyes before answering.  
  
"We had a bit of a tussle, pet," he'd finally said, setting her empty mug aside. "What do you remember?"  
  
"Falling," she'd said. "The tower. Dawn? Is she...?"  
  
"She's fine, luv. Let's worry about you. You lost a lot of blood. Are you having any trouble breathing?"  
  
Blood loss...she'd always assumed the wounds were from her fall...but Giles...he'd been so very angry...questioning her about Spike until she wanted to crawl away...and...well...not die, cause that would be a waste of time.  
  
Now she remembered the taste of Spike, the feel of him. She didn't completely understand how she knew. But she did...know: This thing in her arms, this thing in bed with her, wasn't Spike. It tasted foul. It frightened her. Spike, for all his wickedness, was sweet on the tongue. He went down easy, like a Jell-O shot. Only later did you notice the weakness in your knees.  
  
Drifting on the sidelines of her own life, Buffy saw the faux Spike touching her. It was all so familiar. As if she'd witnessed this scene from this same vantage point, before. Though she had no clear memory of the event, Buffy knew she and Spike had been in a similar situation. It looked the same but the feelings were different. She tried to make her brain understand what was wrong. It was like trying to stab a floating leaf with a sharp stick. Her mind kept bobbing off along tributaries.  
  
It was a frustrating time for an out-of-body experience. Redoubling her efforts to reconnect to the physical world, Buffy gradually became conscious of a repetitive noise. There was something wrong in the living room. Her intermittent awareness zeroed in on the odd sound. It was a frantic scraping. The shushing was followed by an imperative thud. Buffy thought it might be important. She tried to sit up.  
  
"Be still, luv," the Spike-thing soothed when she wouldn't stop flailing. "Don't fret. It's nothing. Bats in the fireplace, maybe...or the rowdy neighbors." He lowered his death-filled mouth to hers, parting her lips with a whisper. "We should get rowdy, too. Drown them out."  
  
"Drowning...?" Buffy mumbled the word, desperate to give it some meaning. The thing abandoned her lips to nuzzle along her throat. He was going to bite her. Panic booted Buffy's brain into a coherent gear. "Wasn't there something about water...or fire or..."  
  
A warm sucking sensation pushed her under for what would be the last time. Tentacles erupted along the thing's body.  
  
'Well, that can't be good,' Buffy thought. 'And yet...he's so warm...wet...did you feed, Spike? That can't be...but...Ooohhh...but that is...good...so good...Spike...always wanted...this...you...ever since that day...when we kissed...in your crypt...No, not like this...in the caves...you were...'  
  
There was a harsh shout of triumph from somewhere. The Spike-thing briefly broke away from his prey, rising up from the waist like a cobra. He turned his torso to listen. Buffy shivered at the sudden cold and then groaned as renewed feeling poured into her limbs, making her fingers and toes ache. Her head started to clear. She looked up at the nightmarish creature towering over her. It had cast Spike's duster aside, letting the garment tumble to the floor.  
  
Buffy glanced along her nearly naked body. Her blouse was unbuttoned. In the half-light, her skin showed a tracing of tiny red blisters. Every fine tentacle had left a mark. Buffy felt exposed. Her gut twisted in revulsion and she groped feebly for some way to cover her nudity. The demon caught her wrist with one rubbery limb. He tutted at her good-naturedly.  
  
"Don't you want me, luv?" he asked, his tone silky and sickly sweet.  
  
Buffy shuddered. She tried to wrench free but his touch drained away her will. She frowned over his question. Did she want him? She couldn't remember. She thought maybe she did. He cascaded toward her with the same snake-like litheness. He kissed her and she was sure of her need. After another kiss, she wilted. Her eyes glassed over in detachment. The world was sliding out from under her like sand spilling into the bottom of an hourglass. Time was running out.  
  
What did it matter? Spike was with her. She was safe. He started working down the fly of her leather pants. 'Why fight it,' she thought.  
  
Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes were partially open but nothing registered. Through the curtain of her lashes, she stared at the sliver of mirror in the closet. The sliding shutter was cocked open and Spike's reflection was just visible at the edge of the glass. Buffy looked at it for what seemed like an eternity before it rang any alarm bells in her head.  
  
'That's funny,' she thought. 'There used to be a mirror in the living room...is that the same one? Why would Roscoe move the mirror? He didn't want me to see it...see him...didn't want me to know! He isn't a vampire...this isn't Spike. Must...do...something...need to...fight...run...move...Boy, those neighbors sure are noisy...'  
  
They seemed to be banging on the walls. There was a continual banging and what sounded like a name being yelled.  
  
"MMMUFFY! MMMUFFFFYYY!! Muggah id ahll...muffy?"  
  
Muffy...can't...hear...you...  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
With ten minutes of diligent scraping against the ragged bricks, Spike managed to remove the gag from his mouth. As soon as he was free of the encumbrance, he started screaming Buffy's name. His muffled, echoing shouts disturbed a roost of bats overhead but seemed to have no other result. He continued worrying at his wrist restraints, rubbing his skin raw as he struggled with the heavy cords.  
  
They were in the bedroom, in the bed. Spike could not believe his ears. He thought he might vomit. How could Buffy be so blind? So gullible? So willing? The Incubus was obviously impersonating him. It must have fooled her. But fooling her and seducing her were two totally separate things. Spike found it inconceivable that his double had coaxed Buffy into bed in less than ten minutes. She had resisted Spike's efforts for months. This was no time to abandon animosity.  
  
Completely frustrated, Spike abandoned the idea of getting into Roscoe's apartment again via the fireplace and started squirming in the opposite direction. To his surprise, he was able to inch toward the roof. It was easier to climb the chimney than to descend. But it was still slow going and every minute weighed heavy on Spike's mind. He wondered how long an Incubus took to kill. A Slayer was a rare treat. Spike could only hope the creature intended to savor the experience.  
  
Soot blinded him. By the time he reached the roof opening his jeans were torn and his bare arms were bloody. He bumped at the metal grating with his head, unable to free his hands. He wondered how much time he had left. His gut told him he would be too late. Desperate, he bellowed another warning.  
  
"BUFFY!"  
  
"Spike?"  
  
His name echoed up the chimney. Spike felt the hair on his arms tingle up.  
  
Christ that sounded just like...  
  
He squirmed, trying to look down past the plug of his body as he shouted. "DAWN?"  
  
"Spike?" She yelled up the flue again. "Is that you?"  
  
"Niblet, get a weapon. NOW!"  
  
"I've got one. What are you doing up the chiiiIII..."  
  
Dawn's disembodied voice broke off in a startled chirp. A millisecond later something crashed into the brickwork several yards below. The impact vibrated up to Spike. Debris showered into his eyes and despite not needing to breath he choked and sputtered.  
  
"Bloody hell," he coughed. "Ni-NIBLET?"  
  
There was no answer for a moment and then a far off cry. "Spike, help!"  
  
The terror behind the words freed his monster. He morphed into fangs, flailing and roaring out a challenge. It was a fool's challenge and the beast pursuing Dawn didn't deign to answer it. Spike wasn't surprised. He could hardly expect to cow the thing given his current position. Even head to head, considering their earlier encounter, the creature was probably not going to be impressed. Spike knew he was outclassed. So did the Incubus. In the hierarchy of their kind, some things easily trump a chip-whipped vampire. But this particular upper echelon demon was threatening everyone Spike loved. This, as far as he was concerned, went a long way toward leveling the playing field.  
  
Snarling, Spike butted against his prison roof. The metal cap on the chimney buckled under the assault. Cool, fragrant night air splashed against his face. He thrust up again and the barrier gave way. Scattering bricks and mortar, he squirmed free of the narrow passage, birthing back into the fray. It took only a moment to bite through the remains of his restraints.  
  
Unbound, he rolled to his feet and sprinted across the rooftop. There was no time to look for an easy descent. Dawn would be dead in a matter of seconds. Without braking, Spike vaulted the eaves. He plummeted the two stories to the street, landing soft as a fallen leaf. Racing back into the building, he heard another distant cry for help.  
  
"SPIKE?"  
  
Upstairs, Dawn was scrambling to stay ahead of her squid-like assailant, buying time...or borrowing it. She was lucky to be alive. She had registered the change in the light an instant before the incubus attacked. A monstrous shadow had loomed over her as she was calling up the chimney to Spike. Instinct had kicked in. She had dropped to the floor.  
  
The slashing tentacles missed her by scant inches. The brickwork of the fireplace just over her head was reduced to powdery red chips. The middle of the mantelpiece vanished. Red and gray rock rained down. A brass coal scuttle tipped over. Fire tongs and other implements scattered. Dust filled the air, making Dawn gag as she rolled off the hearth. She came to a stop, face up, and got her first good look at her attacker. Her stomach roiled. Staring up at the thing blocking the light, Dawn sucked in a lungful of gritty air and screamed for Spike.  
  
Tentacles struck at her like a nest of vipers. Pushing off with knees and elbows, Dawn scurried backward. She had dropped her stake. Her eyes searched for it, for any kind of weapon. She wanted the weight of something deadly in her hands, though she had no intention of getting close enough to the monster to strike at it. Her gaze swept the surroundings. She spotted a fire poker near the monster's stumpy feet. It would mean getting closer. But it was worth the risk.  
  
Dawn lunged forward, extending her arm full length to snatch at the weapon. The unexpected move confused her foe. Another rubbery limb punched into the floor behind her. She was already rolling sideways. Whipping the poker around like a saber, she blocked the next sweep of tentacles. The impact of the strike vibrated the weapon from her hand and sent her sliding across the floor. Pretending to be her sister, Dawn used her own momentum to propel up into a handstand walkover and flip to her feet. When the move worked as planned, she went through a swift series of reactions. Her giddy elation was pushed aside by a sharp pang of regret for the lack of witnesses. Then her pride was totally eclipsed by the very real possibility of imminent death.  
  
The Incubus wasn't impressed. It swept after her. She faked right and shoulder-dived left toward the shelter of the sofa. The heavy couch was hurled aside, leaving her exposed. She yelled for Spike again. There was an answering bellow. It seemed to be coming from outside. Dawn stole a glance at the fireplace. Debris was no longer showering onto the hearth. Her heart lifted. Spike was coming to save her. Now it was a race. Dawn knew she needed to stay alive a few more seconds. She spotted the open doorway to the bedroom, the dark hole beckoning to her. She broke from a sprinter's start, heart pumping, running flat out.  
  
Behind her the beast moved lightning fast. It lashed out whip-thin arms to catch at her ankles. Dawn danced sideways and crashed through an ironwork floor lamp. She tripped and fell, sliding along the floor like a curling stone to smash into the wall just short of her target. Tangled in electrical cord, she lay stunned, struggling to regain her breath as the Incubus towered over her. She could hear Spike thudding up the stairs.  
  
'Too late,' she thought.  
  
A second later, a figure loomed in the doorway.  
  
"Get away from her you bitch," Buffy ordered in her best Sigourney Weaver voice. She coughed slightly and revised. "Uh...Bastard."  
  
Dawn let out a yelp of thanksgiving. The cheer whimpered away in her throat, however, when she got a better look at her sister. Buffy was wearing Spike's duster. It made her look childlike and it accentuated the pallor of her skin. Something had taken a toll on her. She was weaving badly on her feet and kept blinking in a vain attempt to focus. Worse yet, in lieu of a Ripleyesque rocket launcher, she was clutching an ice bucket. It didn't have the same cachet. But the Slayer had invested confidence.  
  
Sloshing the melted contents of the container in a threatening fashion, she declared, "Ha! Water and I know how to use it!"  
  
To Dawn's amazement the Incubus hissed and gave ground. It seemed impressed by the non-weapon. Buffy tried to move but her knees buckled. She fell against the doorframe and then pushed off from its support. She tottered uncertainly. For a second, it looked like she would pass out. Dawn shouted a warning. The incubus surged forward, stopping only when Buffy found her equilibrium and hefted her bucket.  
  
Dawn couldn't believe her eyes. It was the goofiest Mexican standoff in history. The combatants weaved around one another. Buffy staggered forward, circling with her bucket of water, herding the creature toward the kitchen. The Incubus lashed out rubbery limbs in an effort to distract but stayed well clear of splash radius.  
  
"It's afraid of getting wet?" Dawn asked, incredulously, as she struggled free of the floor lamp.  
  
"Elemental force," Buffy answered, motioning with her free hand at her sister. "Now get behind me!"  
  
"I've got a spray bottle somewhere," Dawn said helpfully. "I put it down over there by the fireplace." She stood on tiptoe to scan the ruined hearth. There was no sign of her holy water.  
  
"Dawn," Buffy snapped in exasperation. "Come on. I don't know if I can..."  
  
Buffy didn't get to finish her sentence. Spike arrived. Expecting the front door to be latched he tackled it at speed. Unfortunately, Dawn had neglected to fully close the door when she entered. It crashed open under the force of Spike's headlong rush. The Slayer half-turned toward the noise. Her eyes widened in shock and then Spike hit her hard. They went down with a gargle, a thud and a splash. The front door bounced off the wall and slammed decisively closed.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"What I don't understand," Xander inserted into the inevitable Spike discussion that had broken out once the hole was complete. "Is what she could possibly see in him?"  
  
Shaking back her caramel colored hair, Tara snorted softly. "You mean besides the sexy lips and penetrating eyes and the way his pants kind of curve around..."  
  
A heavy silence pressed down causing her sentence to trail off. She stole a glance at the group. To visually illustrate the exact anatomical arc of Spike's posterior, she had cupped both palms at hip level. With a guilty start, she let her hands fall to her sides. Her gaze meandered around the circle of gaping Scoobies until it collided with her lover's quizzical stare. Blushing, Tara quickly looked away.  
  
"Uhm...I mean, it seems to me...it mi-might b-be that." she finished hastily. Stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets she shrugged up her shoulders as if suddenly chilled.  
  
"The lesbian is correct," Anya nodded. "Spike is very pleasing to look at."  
  
"So...it's physical?" Xander pressed. He didn't get it but it was a better explanation than the alternative he'd been contemplating all evening.  
  
His fiancée wafted a hand. "Also Buffy likes having sex with vampires."  
  
"Don't be absurd," Giles chided as if addressing the mentally challenged. He had ignored the conversation for the most part and even now didn't bother to look up from the tome he was perusing. "Buffy has never shown the slightest inclination to...or...rather... for...well...it just isn't in her nature." Forced to contemplate the unthinkable, he took off his glasses and polished them.  
  
"Hello? Angel?" Willow reminded.  
  
"Angel was a regrettable mistake," Giles said firmly. He returned his spectacles to his nose and glittered wisely. Willow snorted. Seeing the expression on her face, Giles put his text to one side. He held his place with two fingers, however, as if certain this issue was a nonsensical one and would take little time to explain. "Buffy was young and easily taken in. She had no idea Angel was a vampire until they were well into the...relationship. Once she discovered the truth...well...there were mitigating circumstances..."  
  
"You mean like being in love with him?"  
  
"Certainly considering herself to be in love."  
  
"What about Dracula?"  
  
"That was a blood thrall," Giles said dismissively. Having had enough of the subject, he picked up his book again. "And this confusion with Spike and the Incubus is nothing more than a variation of that same supernatural side-effect."  
  
"I don't think it was the spell," Xander said. He spoke so softly that the others went on chatting around him.  
  
"You think using Spike's blood for the resurrection created the same kind of attraction as a thrall?" Willow asked Giles.  
  
"So we need a counter-spell?" Tara supposed.  
  
"Counter, yet retaining the good parts of...living Buffy," Willow twittered.  
  
"Of course," Giles acknowledged. "Altering the spell was a mistake. I take full responsibility for the...unfortunate consequences. However, the end result is what matters." He traded his current tome for another book. "I wonder if Grimley has anything to say about blood bonds. We could..."  
  
Xander tried again to get his point across. "I'm not saying you're wrong," he interjected. "It's not like I've got my Owl Levels like the rest of you, but..."  
  
He drew out the qualifying word. His objection dangled in the air as he gazed at the newly excavated pit. It offered mute testament to his value in the group. He was hesitant to contradict people he considered intellectually superior. But he had been putting two and two together all day. And he kept coming up with a deeper Spike and Buffy connection. After another long moment of indecision he squared his shoulders and spoke resolutely.  
  
"Okay, I'm just the hole digging guy," he said. "I don't know about the witchy stuff or demons. And I'm not exactly a fan of Paleface. He did once plan on killing me. But I know Buffy. And I think...she..." He took a breath and rushed it out. "She likes Spike. She does. Maybe it's love. Maybe we don't want to see it that way. But I don't think it's the resurrection spell. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me she has always kind of...I don't know...admired him, I guess. Even back when he was all evil, all the time."  
  
Willow, Tara and Anya were looking thoughtful. Giles looked furious.  
  
"What exactly are you implying, Xander?" he barked. "Are you saying Buffy is meant to be with Spike? Spike! My God!" He slammed shut Grimley's Guide to the Major and Lesser Incantations. The overloud clap of pages made Tara jump. She laced her fingers into Willow's as Giles stood and paced off a few square yards of service road.  
  
"May I remind you," he growled, "That we are talking about a vampire? One of the worst of his kind? He is less than two hundred and already he's killed two Slayers and left another maimed for life. He isn't a person you...date." He spat the word out. "In fact, Spike isn't a person at all. He's a thing. Keep that in mind. Don't be lulled by familiarity into thinking he is any different than the rest of his kind. He can't be domesticated. All that keeps him in check is a marvel of modern engineering. Without that restraint you can be sure he would slaughter us all in our sleep."  
  
"But he didn't," Xander pointed out.  
  
"Didn't what?"  
  
"Kill us in our sleep. After Buffy died, I mean."  
  
"There's a chip in his head," Giles reminded.  
  
"The chip doesn't change what he is," Xander said. "Isn't that your point? It isn't a Neighborly Compassion chip. He isn't suddenly Mr. Rogers. If he wanted us dead he could arrange to have us taken out, right? Get in touch with Drusilla or one of his other demon pals? So why didn't he set us up for the kill? Pick us off one by one? Why did he stick around and fight for us and take care of the Dawnster and everything?"  
  
"We were bringing Buffy back," Giles said, sighing at the young man's obtuseness. "Spike would have done anything, said anything...."  
  
"Because he loves her?" Tara asked, raising an eyebrow at the former Watcher. The very idea ran counter to every lesson, every canonical document endorsed by the Council.  
  
"Because he's obsessed with her," Giles corrected, with firm assurance. But he was wilting slightly. The hole in his argument was looming. He didn't plan to acknowledge it. The shift in his body language was the only concession he gave. "He was willing to pay any price if there was the slightest chance of having her."  
  
"But it wasn't Spike's idea," Willow said. "It was ours." She almost said, 'Yours!' Her green eyes clouded as black memories touched her. "Spike warned us. He told us not to do it. Magic and consequences...remember?"  
  
"Right," Xander said. "Big ol' fangy consequences. If it hadn't been for Spike..." He let the sentence end abruptly but kept his gaze steady on the older man.  
  
Giles deflated even more in the face of Xander's meaning. It was his turn to avoid eye contact. There had been consequences. The spell had gone wrong. Willow's extraordinary talent had proved insufficient to the task. His weeks of painstaking research had been incomplete. He had failed his Slayer.  
  
Tara seemed no happier than Giles. She was scowling at Xander, one arm encircling her lover's trembling shoulders. The consequences of the resurrection were a forbidden subject. She briskly rubbed her hand up and down, seeking to anchor Willow in the present. By mutual consent they never discussed the aftermath of the spell. Willow made light of it for Buffy's sake but she had paid a high price for casting black magic. Her spirit was scarred.  
  
Only Tara knew the extent of her partner's suffering. Willow put on a brave face during the day. But she had frequent flashbacks in the small hours of the morning. In the dead of night she often woke screaming and there was no consoling her until sunlight cleared away all shadows. Tara had nightmares, too. They all did, the entire inner circle.  
  
They dreamed of the abomination...lightning punctuated, terror driven dreams of the horrid thing they had called forth out of Buffy's grave. The Slayer claimed to have no memory of the dark days following her return but her friends would never forget.  
  
The spell had demanded human sacrifice. Willow and Tara's sensibilities and Giles' over-eager translation of the text had allowed a harmless substitution. Spike had been used in place of a living donor. They had spilled his heart's blood and the blood had worked its magic. Buffy was renewed. Her putrid body was restored to perfect health. But even as the glow of life lit her skin, death marked her. Her eyes flashed with jagged bolts of light. Her brow furrowed and her teeth extended into fangs. Her flesh twisted, becoming a battlefield for good and evil. Buffy's soul re- entered the world locked in supernatural combat with Spike's demon.  
  
The assault on her newborn psyche had been brutal, devastating to witness. Three days into the ordeal, she broke free of her chains and targeted her resurrectionist. Only Tara's quick thinking had saved Willow's life. Seeing no alternative, Giles asked Spike to terminate his Slayer. Spike refused. Giles could still feel the stinging lash of his words.  
  
"We did this Rupert. You and I. Can't wash it away. Can't blame your pretty witches either, can we? What do they know? Our love did this. And that thing we made? It has her heart...I can see Buffy in there...buried but crying out. I can feel her... and I am not about to let you put her back in the ground. Hell, I'd bloody well celebrate her slaughtering every last one of you. So get back to your books, old man. Find a cure. Or you'll have both of us after your blood."  
  
Giles had searched for a solution. But it was Spike who found one. He brought Buffy back to her senses. He stalked her, captured her and held her for a fortnight, far from prying eyes, deep in the Initiative caves. No threat or promise of reward would move Spike to discuss his methods and Giles was afraid to voice his suspicions.  
  
For weeks after her return, he'd watched Buffy carefully; alert for any sign of unnatural attachment. He'd tested her blood and put her through her supernatural paces. She was in perfect health and seemed, if anything, to be avoiding Spike. And yet, there were the marks on her body.  
  
"Yes," Giles finally sighed, knowing he could never tell the others why he was so leery of the vampire. "I will concede the point. Spike has proved useful. But that doesn't mean Buffy is destined for him...or even attracted to him. I believe Spike exerts some kind of control over the Slayer. And the spell we cast is at the root of it. No matter how harmless he seems we must never let our guard down. He is evil. We can't romanticize this. These aren't two people who share some mystical connection...other than the mystical connection we created when we cast that misbegotten spell. You can't tell me you want to revisit that horror?"  
  
"Of course not," Xander snapped, affronted. "But that won't happen."  
  
"It could," Giles warned. "The potential is there. Buffy is human. But her hold on humaniy is tenuous. Spike is a demon. Humans don't belong with demons."  
  
"Unless they are FORMER demons," Anya inserted into the long thoughtful silence. "Former demons are okay for dating and marrying and other types of belongings."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Buffy shoulder rolled out of her fall and popped to her feet. She came up cursing the name of her would-be rescuer. "DAMN IT, SPIKE!"  
  
"Bloody Hell, Slayer," a voice near the fireplace exclaimed.  
  
In almost perfect harmony an identical voice asked, "Bit are you okay?" from the other side of the room.  
  
Buffy blinked, head swiveling to take in the new tableau. "Oh, not again," she groaned.  
  
"There are two of them," Dawn said, looking from one version of Spike to the other. She had darted out of the way as the three others collided. Her hasty move helped her stay upright and avoid the crush of bodies but she had ended up too far from her sister. She was, however, very close to the Spike asking after her. She took a half step toward his outstretched hand.  
  
"Dawn, stay where you are," Buffy barked sidling toward the girl. "One of them is..."  
  
Before she could finish the sentence the Spike furthest from Dawn roared, "Keep your soddin' mitts off her, you nonce!' and charged at his twin.  
  
Spike 2.0 reacted instantly to the threat. They met in the middle of the room with a flurry of punches, bites and growls. Dawn edged warily away from the melee. She pressed into the wall and crept along the low bar and then around into the kitchenette. As soon as she was well clear of the fight, her eyes swept the tiny room for a weapon. There was a sprayer on the sink but the hose wasn't long enough to reach the doorway. A wooden cutlery stand full of knives nestled between a wine rack and a turret of bottled herbs on the bar.  
  
She noticed the bar was well stocked as she snatched a wide carving blade from the selection. The weight of the knife in her hands gave her a false sense of security. Even a powerful strike with such a trifling weapon would only irritate the monster they were fighting. Her mind raced. Buffy had mentioned elemental forces. Dawn knew that meant water or air or fire. She looked again to the sink. There was a window above it. She briefly considered climbing out and trying to get help. She shook her head. It was a long drop to the ground. She'd never make it down. Besides Buffy and Spike were in trouble, there had to be something she could do.  
  
She returned her attention to the bar. Maybe there was a container she could fill with water. She rejected the idea almost immediately. A quick search turned up nothing larger than a martini shaker. She could use a seltzer bottle. It might not take much water, if it worked like the wicked witch. But Dawn didn't have time for trial and error. It could take more than one splash or a series of squirts to finish off something that size.  
  
'Come on...think,' she mentally chided. 'Be the Scoobie! What would Xander do? Okay...probably get knocked unconscious....or maybe...just burn the place down.'  
  
As she had the thought, Roscoe's collection of rum and vodka seemed to speak to her. Her gaze darted to the yellow curtains at the window. The glimmer of an idea formed in the back of her mind. A few decisive slices of her knife produced strips of cloth from the curtains. After laying out the strips on the counter, Dawn gathered up an armload of liquor. She placed the bottles in the sink and then turned on one of the stovetop burners. Working carefully, she doused her curtain rags in alcohol. Once they were well soaked, she started plugging the strips into full bottles. In the living room the battle of the Spikes raged on.  
  
Spike and Roscoe were locked together in a tangle of limbs. Buffy couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. They were identical, right down to the cuts and bruises. But Buffy knew there was one crucial difference. The real Spike didn't stand a chance in the fight. Only Roscoe's intended victim could kill him. She circled the pair, looking for a way to help. She'd seen Dawn scamper into the kitchen and prayed her little sister had been able to escape through the window.  
  
There was a crackle of energy as Roscoe broke into his true form. Grey tentacles waved. A lance of electricity arched through the air and Spike screamed. A second later, he was hurled into the nearest wall. Roscoe pinned him in place with a few tentacles. Another of the Incubus' numerous limbs seized a wooden stake from the wreckage of furniture.  
  
Buffy had just somersaulted away from the fight toward the kitchen, Spike's duster whipping in her wake. A busy noise had alerted her to Dawn's continued jeopardy. Roscoe moved in for the kill. Buffy saw the Incubus take up a stake as she swished through a handspring. Twisting in mid-air, she piked out of her maneuver. The change of direction landed her square in the path of Roscoe's strike. Rotating on the ball of one foot, she disarmed the monster with a roundhouse kick. Spike staggered to his feet. Buffy steadied him briefly and then went on the offensive. Scooping up the fallen stake, she charged, shoulder slamming into the Incubus.  
  
"Don't touch him, pet," Spike ordered but it was too late.  
  
Roscoe whirled, lashing out ropey limbs to lasso one of the Slayer's wrists and both of her ankles. It yanked her from her feet. She flailed for a moment but ceased struggling almost immediately. The chemical rush of the Incubus entered her blood stream, calming her. Spike bellowed in rage. Without taking time to recover his equilibrium, he launched another attack. A score of tentacles pushed him aside like an errant toddler.  
  
There was roaring sound and a flare of light from the kitchen, followed immediately by an acrid odor. Dawn gave an incoherent shout of triumph. The commotion caused a break in the living room action. Roscoe, Spike and Buffy looked toward the bar. As they glanced up, Dawn appeared, trailing two bright banners of flame behind her. She ran into the room, and tossed the first Molotov cocktail at the creature holding her sister. The bottle went wide but the flame scorched the Incubus and it screamed in pained surprise. It dropped the Slayer and, morphing back into a svelte from, dived away from the splattered blaze.  
  
Buffy landed hard. She flopped about, gathering her composure. A fretful Dawn scampered to her side. Waving her remaining weapon, the Slayer's sister held both demons at bay. But she didn't dare throw the final bottle.  
  
"I can't tell them apart," she said as she helped her sister stand up.  
  
Leaning heavily on Dawn, Buffy turned to confront her suitors. Roscoe was gone. There were two Spikes again.  
  
"Spike?" Buffy said, tremulously.  
  
"Buffy," the Spikes said as one. They glared at one another. "Bugger it! Stop that! Look, I'm warning...Arrgh!"  
  
"Which one is the real Spike?" Dawn asked.  
  
Buffy frowned looking from one vampire to the other. "I can't...I don't know."  
  
"I'm me," both Spikes said together. "He's not me. No, you're not. Look, Buffy...luv, can't you tell?"  
  
"Oh, great," Buffy groaned. "Like the world needs two of you."  
  
"There aren't two of me," the Spikes insisted and then they both puffed up like angry adders. They were pushing at each other, mirror images of frustration. "Bloody HELL! Will you just shove a stake up your..."  
  
Buffy had a sudden inspiration. "Dawn, give me the bottle."  
  
"Careful with that, luv," the Spike on the left said.  
  
Just as the Spike on the right looked beyond her shoulder and remarked, "Got a ready blaze going back there, pet. Vampires and little girls burn too, you know?"  
  
"Say my name," Buffy ordered, her tone commanding their attention.  
  
"Your NAME?" the Spikes gasped not believing their ears. "Look this is hardly the time to..."  
  
"Spike," Buffy growled in exasperation circling the pair as her alcohol torch continued to burn. "Just say it! Say my name like you said it last night in the shower."  
  
"Shower?" Dawn inquired, eyebrows waffling. Buffy ignored her.  
  
"Of all the...look...Slayer...this is definitely not the time to come over all sentimental on us...just kill the bugger and..." The Spike on the right had had more than enough of this game.  
  
But the Spike on the left seemed to understand. He locked eyes with her and nodded slowly.  
  
"Buffy," he whispered in the same desperately intense tone that she remembered from the night before.  
  
"Yes," The Slayer said feeling a tingle of sexual desire. It sparked in her chest and traveled jaggedly down to her groin. Her body relaxed, leaning toward the Spike on the left as she breathed out a sigh. "That's it exactly. That's just how I remember it. So loving, so perfect..."  
  
The Spike on the right bristled in indignation as Buffy took one hesitant step forward and then another. She gazed into the eyes of his double. And then without any warning, she hurled her makeshift bomb directly into the face holding her rapt attention. There was a roar of flames as the whiskey bottle shattered and the alcohol ignited. Just for a second the fire outlined Spike's form and then a terrible high-pitched scream caused Dawn to cover her ears and squeeze her eyes shut.  
  
The noise was frightful. Roscoe's Spike form dissolved into a flailing mass of grey tentacles as the Incubus burst out of the fire and charged. The Slayer dived away from it, certain it would target her. Instead, it snaked a dozen arms around Dawn.  
  
"Bloody HELL, SLAYER," the real Spike screamed over the roar of the fire. As he and Buffy hustled sideways to avoid the newest blaze, he snarled. "I thought he got your soddin' name thing down?"  
  
"He did," Buffy yelled back. "One thing about old Roscoe, he always knows the right thing to say."  
  
"Oh, that's clever," Spike growled. "And now he's got Dawn and we're cornered. What next?"  
  
"I don't know," Buffy shouted. "Fire should have worked. Air, Water, Earth, FIRE."  
  
"Maybe you have to hold him in the flames," Spike guessed. He pantomimed shoving Roscoe into the fire.  
  
"I could try that," Buffy said, looking dubiously toward the conflagration.  
  
"Are you crazy?" Spike yelped, throwing a protective arm across her chest.  
  
The kitchen and the door to the bedroom were completely engulfed in flame. In the distance there was a wail of sirens. Fireman and powerful hoses were on the way. 'Water in a continuous stream,' Buffy thought. But it would arrive too late. The charred Roscoe was threatening to squeeze the life out of Dawn. His charmed touch was making her sway. As Spike and Buffy looked on helplessly, Dawn slumped into unconsciousness. Roscoe morphed into a scorched and disheveled version of the Slayer.  
  
"I thought you could only do men," Buffy accused.  
  
Roscoe smiled. "I can only do women," he corrected. "Many of them prefer their own gender. Take your little friends, Willow and Tara, wasn't it?" He reached for the doorknob.  
  
"Dawn," Buffy cried in desperation. Her eyes darted anxiously. "Air, Water, Earth, Fire...air, water...." She would have to risk the fire, holding the Incubus in the flames as Spike suggested. They would both burn but it was the only way to save her friends.  
  
"How do you kill something with air?" Spike asked the panicking Buffy.  
  
They were backed up to the stone hearth. Half-crazed with what she was about to do, Buffy turned on him angrily. Her heel caught on the fallen fire tongs. She tripped, going down to one knee as her ankle turned under. She glanced at the source of her stumble. One of the scattered instruments caught her attention. It was a pair of leather bellows.  
  
"Time to find out," she said, a hopeful light in her eyes. She bent to retrieve the instrument and looked back at Spike. "You get Dawn."  
  
He nodded. They moved as one. Buffy pelted toward her double, pumping the bellows handles repeatedly to create a stream of air. Spike simply charged full speed at the front door. Roscoe bleated in surprise at the unexpected assault. Spike took advantage of the creature's momentary lapse of concentration to wrest Dawn from its grasp. Cradling her against his chest he hit the door with his shoulder. They crashed through the barrier and momentum carried them both to the far side of the hallway. Behind them, Buffy stabbed the nozzle of her weapon into her double's chest, forcing in air. The Incubus shrieked.  
  
It fell back across the threshold. Before it hit the floor it started swelling. Flailing tentacles appeared and then, a second later, seemed to shrink into stubby arms as the main body of the beast inflated like a puffer fish. Balancing on the engorged mass, Buffy kept pumping until the Incubus was as round and featureless as a beach ball. Finally, the thing's overstretched skin popped. There was an explosion of grey goop. The Slayer was hurled into the hallway, still clutching her bellows.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Spike drove the Slayer and her sister home. At Buffy's insistence, they stopped off at Miller's Grove. When she returned his duster before exiting the car, Spike was sure Buffy would let someone else give her a lift the rest of the way. But to his surprise and Giles' obvious distaste, she got back into the DeSoto after the briefest consultation with her friends.  
  
The car was warm and ran quietly, offering Spike's little family unit a small island of intimacy against the chilled night. In the backseat, Dawn chattered on about the battle until they made the turn into Revello Drive. Buffy stared silently out of the passenger window. Spike was decidedly worried by the time he eased to the curb in front of the Summers' house and shifted into park.  
  
Dawn opened her door a crack. Cool air rushed in. Buffy didn't move. She didn't speak. Dawn hesitated. Nibbling her lip, she looked from one blond head to the other. Neither of the people in the front seat seemed eager to go. They sat there for a time. Finally, Spike decided to break the ice.  
  
"Buffy...I wish..." he hesitated. Shifting slightly, he glanced over the seat back, meeting Dawn's eye.  
  
"Oh, wow, it's late," Dawn said, suddenly. "School night. You two probably have to...uhm...do...whatever. Don't mind me."  
  
Before Buffy could object, her little sister was out of the car and scampering up the walk to the porch. The Slayer stared after her.  
  
"I should go," Buffy said, pulling up the door handle to escape.  
  
Spike gently clasped her nearest wrist. "Don't," he whispered. "I didn't mean to..."  
  
"What?" she interrupted in an equally soft tone as she turned to face him, "Do your best to save me from a soul-sucking fiend?"  
  
"Yeah," he said, answering the question in his head rather than the one she'd just asked. It took a moment for him to adjust. "I mean, no!" Her words sank in a little further and he smiled in pleasant confusion. "What?"  
  
"Oh, I see," she said, nodding sagely. She gave him a small smile. "Then you must mean how you basically acted like a possessive idiot, with the threatening and the drunken binging. How you meddled in my personal life and nearly got my baby sister killed."  
  
"Well, I wouldn't have put it quite like that," Spike huffed. He started to take umbrage but checked the urge, remembering in a flash how Roscoe 'always said the right thing.' He looked down at the seat cushion between them and shrugged meekly. "But...okay...."  
  
Buffy seemed pleased. She slid toward him across the front seat until her left arm encircled his shoulders. She stopped with her one knee just touching his thigh. As Spike glanced up in bemusement, she leaned in, pressing along his arm. She gently settled the palm of her right hand against his cheek.  
  
"I'm getting used to it," she said softly just before their lips met in a gentle kiss.  
  
Spike sat very still. He was sure there had been some mix-up in Heaven. It just wasn't possible Buffy was kissing him, like a lover. He was afraid to move. Any shift in position, any show of eagerness, might break the spell. He had expected the Slayer to be furious. Even as the kiss ended, he was sure she would pull back and punch him. But after a moment, when she stayed close, he grew bolder. He gathered her into his arms, sliding his knee under her thigh.  
  
Buffy shifted with him until she was halfway into his lap. Spike favored her with the shyest of smiles. He tilted his head slightly, bringing their lips together again. He could feel his insides turning to jelly as this second kiss deepened. His beloved squirmed, pressing even closer into him. She was making tiny mews of pleasure. Her hands were searching out his secrets. Spike let his fingertips wander. He traced up and down the length of her back. Finally he settled one hand at curve of her hip as the other climbed to weave through her hair.  
  
When he tugged at her tresses, Buffy ran her thumb along his jaw to his earlobe. Her fingers laced together at the back of his neck, holding him as her tongue slipped out to meet his in a languid caress.  
  
Their kissing grew more heated and they both grew bolder in their fondling. Spike stroked Buffy's neck. Trailing his fingers down her chest, he unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. He pushed the slippery material aside, exposing the creamy curve of her breast and one satiny shoulder. Ducking his head, he settled a kiss just above the straining third button and gloried in Buffy's sharp intake of breath.  
  
She wanted more. Her hands clawed at Spike's clothing, tearing buttons from their moorings. She worked her fingers deep into his hair and arched up as he ran his tongue in a single long glide along the swell of her breast and across her collarbone to a spot just below her right ear.  
  
"Oh, my sweet love," he whispered against the strong pulse in her throat.  
  
The Slayer stiffened and pulled away, shuddering slightly. Spike froze in apprehension as he realized what he'd just said. Buffy's bottom slipped off his leg onto the seat. But she didn't go far. She leaned her forehead against his, shaking but maintaining their embrace. They both took several slow deep breaths.  
  
"We did this before," Buffy said at last. "In the caves?"  
  
"No," Spike denied. He struggled to break her hold, suddenly afraid. She held him fast, her strong hand at his nape.  
  
"I remember. You bit me." She released him and settled one trembling hand to her breast. "Here."  
  
Her eyes were squeezed shut as if the memory was too much for her. Spike started to panic. His thoughts tumbled over each other. He wanted to blurt out some excuse.  
  
I didn't mean to take you...force you like that. You were the one...you didn't give me a choice. It was the only way. I had to save you. I had to drink...your blood...our blood...oh, God...baby...please...you have to know I would never...hurt you...never let you slip away again.  
  
"Buffy...?" Spike whispered letting her name melt on his tongue like caramel. He was about to deny her again when she choked him into silence by opening luminous eyes.  
  
"This is wrong," she said with quiet certainty. "And it will end badly. There's no way that this ends well."  
  
Spike wanted to pretend that he didn't understand her. He wanted to make some smart remark but she'd entranced him. He was drowning in her gaze. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in her fist.  
  
"I know," he admitted, after a very long pause. "I wish...I wish I could make it stop."  
  
"Maybe it's supposed to be this way," Buffy said, shifting in the seat and turning to stare out the window again. Scant inches from her icy profile, Spike felt the cold as keenly as if he were alive again. He shivered as she calmly intoned. "Maybe it's our destiny. We must walk this road, knowing it can only end in blood."  
  
"Because I love you?"  
  
"No," Buffy said, giving a quick shake of her head. Looking back at him, she repeated, "No! It's wrong because I'm the Slayer...and because...I need...I can't...shut you out. I try but I just can't seem to..."  
  
She sighed and fell silent. Spike reached out a tentative hand to brush back her hair. When she allowed the caress, he twisted the silken strands between his fingers. Buffy closed her eyes in contentment. She let her head drop back, exposing her throat. Her shoulders swayed seductively. Almost purring she leaned against the headrest, happy to have her erstwhile enemy comfort her with his cool touch.  
  
Taken in, Spike edged closer. The leather seat groaned softly as he shifted his weight. He took his beloved in his arms again. The curve of her neck enchanted him. Bumping his head into her like an amorous kitty, he nuzzled along her jaw, pressing her soft hair against her throat. Finally, when she was sure he never would, Buffy felt him tugging at her skin with blunted teeth.  
  
She convulsed. Sticky hot memories flickered in her mind. The mix of sex and sin made the close air in the car heady. Buffy moaned and Spike obeyed her preverbal command. He didn't change but he did bite down hard enough to break skin. Buffy felt his shoulders twitch as the chip sparked a sympathetic response to her brief pain. Her blood flowed and he sucked at the small wound, caressing her with his tongue.  
  
"I want you to love me," Buffy whispered, her voice thick with long suppressed emotion, "I know it's wrong but I don't want you to stop."  
  
Spike lifted his head to study her, Buffy Summers, his nemesis, his love, his own...the Slayer. Their intermingled blood was on his lips, in his mouth. He felt as if his heart had started beating again. There seemed to be a joyous flutter in his chest as he answered her with simple, if brutal, honesty.  
  
"Then I never will," he said.  
  
Buffy gave a tiny strangled cry. A hopeless twist of desire sheathed itself in her heart. Her blood burned for Spike. She wanted to consume him. The realization was more than she could bear. She seized his face in both hands, wrenching him close for one final desperate kiss. The red nectar on his lips nearly overwhelmed her humanity. But she broke away from the lure and before Spike could think to restrain her, she was out of his car. She sprinted to the relative safety of her house, never once daring to look back.  
  
THE END 


End file.
